
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 



Chap.\. '__-_:__. Copyright No. 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/patchworkpoemsprOOcris 



PATCHWORK 



T 



HE POEMS AND PROSE 

SKETCHES Or 

MRLEY BAINBRIDGE CRIST 



ATLANTA 

THE MARTIN & HOYT COMPANY 

THE DIXIE PRESS 






49 



Copyright, 1898, by 
Maley Bainbridge Crist 



c** The publication of this complete edition of Mrs. Crisfs 
works is made possible by the courtesy of the Frank 
Leslie's Monthly, who originally published several of 
Mrs. Crisfs poems and sketches. 



Illustrations designed by 
Mrs. David Bott Manley 




ZS^b^^r 



898 



TO MY PRECIOUS SON. 

LUCIEN BAINBRIDGE CRIST, 

WHOSE YOUNG LIFE IS THE POESY OF MY EXISTENCE; 

AND TO MY DEAR MOTHER, 

LUCRETIA WRIGHT BAINBRIDGE, 

WHO DAILY GAVE MY CHILDISH SOUL INSPIRATION 

FOR LIFE'S HIGHEST IDEALS, 

I DEDICATE THESE TALES AND RHYMES, 

SKETCHED IN THE LEISURE MOMENTS OF A BUSY LIFE. 

— Maley Bainbridge Crist. 



<( Keep thy heart with all diligence, for out of it 
are the issues of life. n £> 



AUTHOR'S PREFACE 



(< Do not trouble yourself too much about the 
light on your statue, w said Michael Angelo to the 
young sculptor, <( the light of the public square 
will test its value." 



CONTENTS "PATCHWORK" 



* * * 



STORIES 

PAGE 

The Woman's Story of Tolstoi's Kreutzer Sonata, 15 
Romance of a Kentuckian in St. Augustine, - - 57 

Little Jean's Theft, ----77 

Number Fourteen, ------------ 81 

Catherine, --. gi 

The Experience of a Corpse, or the First Night 

Under Ground, 115 

Love's First Conquest. (Leggendario), - - - - 131 

A Confederate for a Day, 139 

The Two Hat Pins, 149 

A Chapter from a Boy's Life, ------- 157 

How the Captain Found His Servant, ----- 165 

The Bridal Chamber of Florida's Silver Springs, 173 

POEMS 
Temptation, 187 

Villanelle. (The Jasmines' Message), - - - - - 191 
I Miss You So, --------- 192 

Mississippi on the Gulf, -----193 

vii 



Contents <( Patchwork 8 

PAGE 

Why Dandelions Turn Gray, --- 194 

Lines to a Beautiful Girl, - 197 

Away Down in Georgia, -- 198 

Protest, - - - - 2 oo 

Villanelle, --- 201 

The Stars and Bars, ----------- 202 

Oneness, ----- ------ 204 

Echo, ---------- -- 206 

What Her Sister Thought, -------- 208 

Cleopatra, ---------------- 209 

Retrospection, - - - - _,- -------- - 211 

Regret, ------ ------ 213 

Infinite, ---------- 217 

A Dark Night, ------ 219 

Gold vs. Love, ------------- 221 

Lines to My Mother, - - - - 223 

Content, ------- 225 

Chastened, ------ 227 

Revery, ------- - 228 

«I Am the Wav,» ------------- 230 

Florida, Queen of the South, ------- 232 

Lines Respectfully Dedicated to General J. J. 

Dickison, ----- -- 233 

The Red, Red Rose, -- 235 

How Do I Love You ? - - - 236 

Trust, ..- 237 

viii 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 



PAGE 

Maley Bainbridge Crist Frontispiece 

He Lifted Me from the Coffin as though I Had Been 

a Child 47 <- 

I Love You; and You — You Love Her. . . .64, 

The Slight, Beautifully Rounded Figure of a Young 

Girl 66 i 

Yours is a Curious Theft, this Stealing Flowers . 78 1 
Fair Summer Knew Her Power, Coquettishly She 

Turned Away 137 

One was a Jeweled Thing of Beauty, the Other a 
Confederate Button, Bearing the S. C. Coat of 

Arms 149 

Flowers are God's Pretty Little Thoughts, Mamma 157. 
I Feel as if I Could Follow that Melody, if I had 

a Flute . 162 

With Compliments of the Author to the Many Friends 

Desiring this Photo 185 

Temptation — (< Behold! the image cold seemed to have 
grown 
Into real life — a woman, sweet and fair. M 187- 
Temptation — (< The fair dream picture vanished from his 
view, 
And with it, sin cast off her blooming mask. 188 
Temptation — (( They gazed upon the priest in fear and awe, 

Amazed at the angelic look he wore. w . . 190 - 
Stars and Bars — 

(( It shall live in song and story, 
Though its folds are in the dust. w . . 202 



It is gratifying to know that the public is to be favored with 
a collection of Mrs. Crises writings. 

It is only a fair encouragement to the talent and labor of the 
writer for me to express the hope that w Patchwork^ will be cor- 
dially received by the public. Stamped as it is with her personality 
and of southern inspiration, I believe it will be so received by that 
people who are ever ready to recognize grace and reward effort. 

Washington, D. C, January 28, 1898. 



PATCHWORK 



THE WOMAN'S STORY OF TOLSTOI'S 
KREUTZER SONATA 



CHAPTER I. 

'ithout doubt, no class of men are so well 
versed in psychological analysis as the 
priesthood, for to them is laid bare the human 
conscience with its mysterious promptings and 
consciousness of guilt in motive or act. The 
sins of their people become a powerful edu- 
cator, not alone deepening their insight and 
broadening their sympathy for frail humanity, 
but lifting them, as well, to a higher and more 
exalted plane of life. Father Wayneclete, the 
venerable and venerated Benedictine whose life 
of labor and love elicited the devotion of all 
with whom he came in contact, was a superior 
example of this class of men. His sincere 

15 






The Woman's Story of 

earnestness, his singular asceticism, combined 
with great wisdom and courage, and, above all 
else, the most divine spirit of charity which 
marked his dealings with his fellow-men, 
stamped him an extraordinary personage. For 
ten years Father Wayneclete had been in charge 
of a monastery in a certain small village in 
England. Situated less than a mile from the 
monastery, stood a convent where for thirty 
years had dwelt a nun in whose seemingly 
quiet and uneventful life there might never 
have been revealed a past, save for the pres- 
ence of this monk. At a table in a chamber 
of the convent sat the nun. Some way — the 
bare room, with its lack of the touches of fem- 
ininity, was in keeping with her presence. The 
rigid folds of her coarse serge gown seemed to 
accentuate, rather than detract from the beauty 
of a figure which might have served as a Gre- 
cian model. She seemed torn by intensity of 
feeling. Her bosom heaved convulsively, and 
gazing upward she exclaimed aloud : (< Holy 
Mother, pity me! I must express my feelings, 
or I shall go mad. w Catching up pen and 
paper, her trembling hand glided rapidly across 

16 



Tolstoi's Kreut^er Sonata. 

the sheets; and like one demented, she mur- 
mured aloud the sentences which tossed them- 
selves from her burning brain. Her voice was 
hoarse with emotion, as she followed aloud 
these tracings of her pen. (< In the seclusion 
of my convent chamber, my rebellious hand 
dares pen thoughts and deeds which should 
long since have been wiped from memory. In 
this, I may be committing an unpardonable sin 
— but it is a partial escape from self, and a 
possible rescue from insanity. For thirty years, 
none have ever guessed the wild war which 
has waged in my heart, and which neither 
time, solitude, nor religion, have the power to 
subdue. My religious duties are a hollow 
mockery, and my life a living lie; for during 
all the outward calm of these years of convent 
life, there has rankled in my heart, where 
naught but love and peace should reign, a 
hatred both fierce and bitter; hatred toward 
man, the author of all my woe — man, in whom 
for thirty years I have believed goodness and 
sincerity to be but a myth, an ideal element 
bestowed by deluded women. It is hard for 
one who has suffered as I have to brand them- 
2 17 



The Woman's Story of 

selves a hypocrite, and yet such I feel myself 
to be, for I have entered the Confessional dur- 
ing all these years, without once unburdening 
my soul of its past sins. Even now, when 
upon the very brink of despair, my proud heart 
rebels against revealing itself to man, and I 
hesitate, even though mine own eyes have 
witnessed the unselfish and self-sacrificing 
life of this Benedictine, Father Wayneclete. 
Woman ! surely thy name is inconsistency. 
Wherefore, after thirty years of hatred and 
distrust toward man, should the white flower 
of faith blossom, and I eagerly stretch forth 
my hands to welcome the first opportunity of 
baring my poor scarred heart before this monk, 
for he compels both confidence and respect. * 
She stopped suddenly, and rising to her feet, 
rent the manuscript into a thousand fragments, 
exclaiming as she did so : (< It is all useless, use- 
less ; I can but find relief in the unburdening 
of my soul of its sins. I must save myself 
from insanity, and this is my last, my only 
resort. w She hesitated for a moment only, and 
then, trembling violently, stole softly from the 
convent, and down the dark avenue of trees, 

18 



Tolstoi's Kreut^er Sonata. 

leading to the monastery of the Benedictine. 
So intent was she upon her purpose, that of 
finding the sympathy which now alone could 
sustain poor tottering reason, that a sense 
of impropriety in thus stealing away to the 
monastery never entered her mind, nor did the 
fact that she might encounter other monks 
than Father Wayneclete. Onward sped the 
slight dark-robed figure which might easily 
have been confounded with the shadows of the 
night. Onward, and still onward, never paus- 
ing until she reached and ascended the steps 
of the monastery Cathedral. The human mind 
is so constituted as often to observe, and, as it 
were, amuse itself with the most minute and 
trivial surroundings at times when its greatest 
interests are at stake. And so this nun, who 
shrank into the darkest corner of the dimly- 
lighted cathedral, mechanically noted the gold 
embroidered cloth, and quaintly carved candle- 
sticks of the altar; noted the heavy crimson 
curtain of the Confessional, the pictures along 
the nave, and even the faint perfume of the 
lilies which decked the altar of the Virgin be- 
fore which knelt the aged Benedictine, upon 

19 



The Woman's Story of 

whose help she now so absolutely depended; 
then, slowly her mind wandered back to the 
object of her visit, and she wondered, shudder- 
ingly, if this man would be able to save her 
from herself. The church was deserted, save 
for the presence of these two. She was incapable 
of judging the length of time that elapsed 
before the monk ceased his devotion, and 
moved slowly down the aisle of the church. 
She was too greatly excited to speak, and 
seized the sleeve of his surtout much as a 
child might have done. He started percep- 
tibly. The presence of a nun in this monastic 
precinct was a thing unheard of; and yet his 
manner was kindly, and his voice sympathetic 
as he inquired: <( What can I do for you, my 
daughter ! w The poor creature seemed suffering 
bodily, as well as mentally, and for an instant 
the small bloodless hands with their scarred 
fingers, were pressed closely against the left 
side, while a spasm of pain contracted the 
features, which notwithstanding the ravages of 
age and suffering, together with the deep and 
lasting scars which appealed pitifully to an 
observer, still bore unmistakable traces of 



Tolstoi's Kreut^er Sonata. 

beauty. The monk noted all this and also 
that the face was that of a Russian, as he 
caught in his arms the fainting figure, which 
must otherwise have fallen at his feet. 



CHAPTER II. 

Father Wayneclete was now thoroughly 
alarmed, for the face of his strange guest in 
the dimly-lighted cathedral seemed to bear the 
gray ashy whiteness of a corpse. Not caring 
to arouse the inmates of the monastery, and 
thereby perhaps divulge a secret intended for 
himself alone, he labored patiently with his 
charge, chafing the small, cold hands, and 
forcing stimulants between the colorless lips, 
until he was rewarded by her return to con- 
sciousness. She sat up, and gazing about in a 
bewildered way, would have spoken, but for 
the interposition of the monk. (< Wait, daugh- 
ter. Do not try to speak until you are 
stronger ! w he exclaimed ; and she obeyed with 
the docility of a child. For some moments 
they sat thus, when the nun broke the silence 



The Woman's Story of 

by exclaiming in a voice so pensive, so soft 
and sweet, that it was like the notes of a bird, 
or the soft ripple of water. <( Father, I have 
come to you, that you may save me from my- 
self. w (( Daughter, w replied the monk, <( I will 
gladly offer you my sympathy and assistance 
by pointing you to the sacrament of penance, 
that you may make your peace with God." 
(( Father, B she continued, (< for thirty years I 
have entered the Confessional without once 
revealing the burdens of my scarred heart. 
My life has been a living lie. But the hour 
has come when I must unburden my soul of 
its sins, and find forgiveness. Nay, more — I 
must have something tangible. I must have 
warm human sympathy; for let my sins be 
what they may, my suffering has been such 
that I cannot bear reproach; and you — you are 
the only one to whom I feel I can confide the 
story of my life." <( Though your sins be as 
scarlet, they shall be white as snow." Softly 
the beautiful promise of God fell from the lips 
of the monk, and soothed the aching heart of 
the grief- stricken nun beside him. A heavy 
sigh shook her form as she replied : <( Never 



Tolstoi's Kreut^er Sonata. 

was there an experience like mine; never a 
life more desolate; and never, perchance, a life 
hurled into eternity by the stroke of a dagger, 
and brought back by a kiss, a caress, a kindly 
word. Ah! how empty all that seems to me 
now! But I digress. To begin my story, I 
was the daughter of a landed gentleman of 
Penza whose fortune was ruined by unwise 
speculation. I was most tenderly and delicately 
reared. Educated in a convent, breathing from 
infancy, as it were, the spirituality of my sur- 
roundings, I was graduated at an early age 
without having entered into the slightest con- 
tact with the practical and materialistic outside 
world. My nature being both poetical and 
hypersensitive, became abnormally so, nurtured 
by such surroundings; and my introduction to 
society, found me as guileless and unsuspicious 
as a little child, and equally as ready to clothe 
whomsoever fancy might dictate with attributes 
existing alone in my own imagination. Just as 
my education was completed, the reverses in 
my father's fortune occurred; but although 
dowerless, I found myself surrounded by 
admirers, for I was what the world called 

23 



The Woman's Story of 

beautiful and my accomplishments were more 
than ordinary. My life was smooth and unevent- 
ful until there crossed its pathway the man 
destined forever to curse it — one Posdnicheff. 
But how the name startles you! You have 
heard the story, then, of Posdnicheff the wife 
murderer ? Aye ! but you have heard only one 
side of it; the other I am about to relate to 
you. But compose yourself, father. You are 
white like death; you tremble and your teeth 
chatter. You are not in the presence of a 
spirit, but in that of the wife of whom not 
alone Posdnicheff, but all who have heard his 
story, believe to be in her grave. * <( Proceed, 
daughter, }) replied the monk, with a desperate 
effort at composure. <( This Posdnicheff, * she 
continued, (< created upon me a different im- 
pression than had any of my other admirers. 
There was a suave deference in his manner 
toward women, mingled with certain easy non- 
chalance which completely captivated me; for 
how was I to know that the very attributes I 
admired in this man were born of his intimate 
experience with women; or, in short, that he 
appreciated them because he was a voluptuary. 

24 



Tolstoi's Kreut^er Sonata. 



It is difficult for a person of my temperament 
to disbelieve in those who please them. The 
distrust must come through bitter experience, 
and my disillusion came through matrimony. 
Even now, when to forget would be a happi- 
ness I never hope to realize, does my memory 
recall in vivid detail every thrill of joy that 
filled my heart the night I was betrothed to 
Posdnicheff. I remember just how our boat 
rocked to and fro as it drifted along in the 
moonlight, and how he praised the shimmer of 
my hair, and vowed I was the only woman he 
had ever loved. I remember, too, that after our 
marriage, his first allusion to this betrothal night 
was one of scorn. He said, had it not been for 
the moonlight on the water, the shimmer of my 
perfumed hair, and the exquisite fit of my gown, 
he would fortunately have remained heart-whole. 
Doubtless he was right, for well do women 
know that men esteem them in proportion to 
their physical attractions; and if in addition 
they have brain combined with a certain degree 
of docility that renders them governable, why, 
so much the better. This all women know in- 
stinctively, but no pure woman ever dreams of 

25 



The Woman's Story of 

the depth of moral degradation into which she 
may be plunged by the man who swears to 
honor and protect her. 

(< My engagement to Posdnicheff was brief ; and 
my fondness and childlike trust in him rendered 
sacred every detail of preparation toward that 
great event, which I told myself should permit 
me to dwell in the sunshine of his presence as 
long as life should last. Our courtship, however, 
was the only pleasant period I was permitted 
to enjoy with Posdnicheff; and this was destined 
to be interrupted. I shall never forget the 
awful moment wherein he temporarily shattered 
my confidence, and for the time obliterated 
every vestige of happiness. Had I been less 
attached to him, or had I been more experi- 
enced, when he showed me his diary in which 
was enough guilt to blast him in the eyes of the 
world, I would have then renounced him for- 
ever ; but God pity me ! I was a very child in 
experience, and in my weakness, and young 
girl's love, I forgave him, compelling myself 
to believe that his affection for me, had made 
him a different man, and that he was now a 
creature incapable of a sin so heinous as that 

26 



Tolstoi's Kreut^er Sonata. 

portrayed in his diary by his own confession. 
Oh, the fallacy, the hallucination of that blind 
infatuation the world calls love. 

(< The break in our courtship was patched up, 
and wedding preparations went on with increased 
rapidity. But alas! how swift my disillusion. 
The anticipated honeymoon palled upon my 
taste, and like the fabled apples of the Dead 
Sea, turned to ashes. All the mental congeni- 
ality and union of soul of which I had dreamed, 
vanished forever in a tide of aversion and dis- 
gust. I found myself wedded to a monster, 
who viewed my every act with jealousy and 
suspicion. How well do I remember, when I 
was no longer able to control my feelings in his 
presence, I endeavored to evade him by a pre- 
tense that I was fretting for my mother; but 
when he failed to console me, and began chid- 
ing me as capricious, I ceased crying and burst 
into such a state of frenzied rage as to aston- 
ish him into quietude. It was our first quarrel, 
and it was a fierce one. A mighty chasm 
which neither of us should ever be able to 
bridge had suddenly yawned between us. Quar- 
rel followed quarrel in rapid succession, each 

27 



The Woman's Story of 

more bitter than the preceding one; and yet, 
violent as were these quarrels, there were inter- 
vals when this man's bitterness and jealousy 
were for the time being forgotten, only to burst 
forth with renewed fury. Picture to yourself 
what to a pure woman such a life must have 
been! Hell can hold no terror to one who suf- 
fered as did I. Posdnicheff's diabolical jealousy 
seemed continually to increase, until finally no 
man dared address me upon the most common- 
place topic, that his motives were not impugned. 
He was even jealous of my attentions to my 
babe — my little Basil, who brought the first 
gleam of sunshine to my married life. Ere long, 
however, a baby in the household ceased to be 
a novelty, and domestic cares crowded upon me 
with such rapidity that my health became 
broken and my nerves completely shattered; 
and I am satisfied, that but for the timely and 
persistent interposition of my family physician, 
who insisted that I must have a complete rest, 
both physical and mental, my miserable exist- 
ence must surely have had a speedy termi- 
nation. This was the source of another fierce 
quarrel between Posdnicheff and myself, he 

38 



Tolstoi's Kreut^er Sonata. 

avowing that no rascally doctor had any right 
to intrude his advice. In this instance, how- 
ever, I was firm; and after a three months' 
visit to my paternal home (my first in ten 
years), so rapid was the improvement in my 
shattered health and broken spirits, that I re- 
turned to my family with almost the buoyancy 
of youth in my veins. Inevitable burdens were 
more easily borne, and even the fault-finding and 
unkindness of Posdnicheff ceased to trouble me. 
For the first time in years, I took an interest 
in things that had been my delight in girlhood 
days. Once more I tirelessly applied myself to 
the piano, until I again became a first-rate per- 
former. All this, however, was witnessed by 
Posdnicheff with direct distrust and indigna- 
tion; but having grown calloused through 
long abuse, a spirit of complete indifference now 
took possession of me, or I should have been 
utterly wretched under his constant and vindic- 
tive reproach. Well do I remember his turning 
away from me one day, muttering : ( Curse her ! 
She is more beautiful than the day I married 
her;* and I remember, too, just what a re- 
vengeful thrill of happiness flashed over me as 

29 



The Woman's Story of 

I mentally congratulated myself, that I was 
spared something, which my tyrannical master 
had been unable to destroy. Affairs went on 
at this rate for several months, when suddenly 
there entered upon the scene of my lonely 
existence the one destined to forever change 
its tenor. Well do I remember the slightest 
details connected with my first meeting of 
Tronkhatchevsky, of whom I had often heard 
Posdnicheff speak, but had never met, owing to 
the fact that he had been in Paris since a year 
previous to my marriage. I remember that I 
was looking very well the afternoon that Tronk- 
hatchevsky called, and I remember noting the 
fact with satisfaction after he had gone. Not 
that I cared to make any particular impression 
upon him, other than the desire to please, which 
is the innate characteristic of every woman. I 
remember, also, my pleased surprise at the cor- 
dial invitation Posdnicheff tendered him to re- 
turn the same evening and bring his violin; 
and I detected, too, what one less acquainted 
with Posdnicheff would have failed to do, viz., 
something other than a desire to enjoy Tronk- 
hatchevsky's company, and his music — an insane 

30 



Tolstoi's Kreut^er Sonata. 

desire (born of furious jealousy) to throw his 
wife into the society of another man, that he 
might secretly observe her conduct. Tronkhat- 
chevsky was the sort of man all his fellows 
must admire. Frank, open, and generous to a 
fault. His face, although delicate, was strong, 
and his magnetic eyes, and auburn hair which 
fell artistically across his brow, were the eyes 
and hair which belong to an intense and highly 
poetical temperament. Although a genius, he 
was as particular, in all the little niceties of 
dress and social custom, as the veriest exquisite 
might have been. As I now look back upon 
the first evening spent in his society I wonder 
at the strange fatality, which at this critical 
moment impelled Posdnicheff to throw us to- 
gether. I knew at the expiration of that first 
evening, that should circumstances permit (as 
they bid fair to do), this musician must neces- 
sarily fill the void in my lonely existence. Not 
that anything tangible presented itself to my mind, 
only a sense of real comfort experienced in his 
presence, a feeling that life must be less lonely 
for knowing him. Long afterward, I learned 



The Woman's Story of 

that this intuition was mutual with Tronkhat- 
chevsky. Whether or not Posdnicheff read any- 
thing of it in the expression of either of our 
faces, I do not know; but he watched us 
narrowly the entire evening, and I noted the 
expressions of jealousy I knew so well contract 
his countenance. The evening passed more 
pleasantly to me than any I had spent for years. 
Tronkhatchevsky's music, played with the spirit 
of a real artist, and the pleasure of accompan- 
ing with the piano a violinist such as he, made 
the evening an exceedingly enjoyable one to 
me. At its close, I was somewhat surprised at 
the intensity of Posdnicheff's assumed cordiality 
toward Tronkhatchevsky, and his pressing invi- 
tation to him to return at his earliest con- 
venience. Weeks rapidly grew to months, and 
the mutual devotion of Tronkhatchevsky and 
myself to music, together with the earnest solici- 
tations of Posdnicheff that he should visit us 
often, threw us frequently in each other's so- 
ciety. w Here the nun paused, and once more 
pressed her hand convulsively to her left side, 
as though to suppress a sudden pain. Her 

32 



Tolstoi's Kreut^er Sonata. 

colorless lips were tightly compressed, and her 
eyes closed. The priest trembled as he looked 
at her, so exactly was she the counterpart of a 
corpse. 



CHAPTER III. 

Ten minutes elapsed ere the strange visitor 
resumed her story. (< Yes, B she continued, <( it 
is useless for me to deny that ere six months 
passed Tronkhatchevsky was the very sunshine 
of my existence. In a thousand nameless and 
unobtrusive ways, he caused me to realize 
that I was the one woman in all the world to 
him; and after all, was it other than natural 
that one so crushed, so abused, so tyrannized 
over as was I, should reach out after a stray 
gleam of sunshine that chanced to cross my 
darkened pathway! In the sight of God, who 
justly judges His creatures by their motives, 
there was no sin in this love which was spon- 
taneous, and which I was utterly unable to 
control. w She heaved a deep sigh, and a bitter 
smile of sarcasm curled her white lips as she 

3 33 



The Woman's Story of 

exclaimed, <( Heaven pity deluded women ! for 
dark as Erebus is the sea of trouble through 
which they must pass, ere they lose entire 
faith in that creature so unworthy of it — man. 
Once more life seemed tinged with the rain- 
bow gleams of bygone days, and time sped on 
flower-tipped wings, when suddenly, as a storm 
cloud gathers in a clear summer sky, so the 
jealousy of Posdnicheff, which had been quietly 
strengthening, burst, in all its awful fury, upon 
my unprotected head. Posdnicheff himself had 
planned for a dinner after which the guests 
were to be entertained by Tronkhatchevsky's 
music. With seeming interest and delight, he 
had busied himself in sending out numerous 
invitations to his chosen guests, as well as by 
ordering an elaborate menu, when suddenly, a 
day or two before this dinner was to take 
place, I noted a change in him. He was sullen 
and morose, and I guessed immediately that 
jealously was the cause of it. He secluded 
himself in his study, and I decided to go to 
him, and if it were possible, to conciliate him. 
I entered the study, and looking toward me 
without speaking, he lighted a cigarette, and 

34 



Tolstoi's Kreut^er Sonata. 

began smoking. Seating myself beside him, I 
leaned my head against his shoulder, exclaim- 
ing, ( Why do you smoke when you see I wish 
to talk to you ? * He recoiled from my touch, 
with a look of hatred and disgust. ( If you do 
not wish me to play with Tronkhatchevsky I 
will not do so, > I continued, ( and all you have 
to do, is simply to write our invited guests 
that I am ill. * He burst into a volley of the 
most horrible oaths, and swore that I had dis- 
graced myself and dishonored him. Fiercely 
we flung vindictive epithets, until seizing me 
by the arm, in a terrible voice he roared: ( Go 
before I kill you. i ( Are you mad ? y I cried. 
His eyes seemed to emit sparks of fire, as with 
a voice hoarse with rage, he shrieked : * Go 
before I kill you,* and seizing a heavy paper 
weight, he threw it violently at my feet, and 
as I turned to fly, hurled after me a massive 
candle-stick, still shouting like a madman : ( Go, 
I tell you — go before I murder you.-* 

<c I became unconscious, remaining so for hours ; 
I learned afterward, that I laughed and wept 
alternately during all this period. When I 
again grew calm, under the influence of 

35 



The Woman's Story of 

connubial love, my husband kissed me and I 
forgave him. He confessed to me afterward, 
that he had been jealous of Tronkhatchevsky. 
He decided, however, that the dinner should go 
on as planned, lest some one guess the real con- 
dition of affairs (as it had been publicly an- 
nounced that we were to play). I determined, 
however, to notify Tronkhatchevsky that after 
this dinner all intercourse between us should 
cease. The opportunity came to me during a 
rehearsal which occurred the evening previous 
to our dinner, and from which, fortunately, 
Posdnicheff chanced to be absent. God alone 
knew the anguish it caused me to voluntarily 
put out of my life the last ray of sunshine that 
was ever to gladden it. To murder the truest 
and purest sentiments that ever bless the hu- 
man soul; to tear myself from a spirit God 
and nature had so perfectly attuned in every 
way to my own, and all, that in the eyes of the 
world I might obey its conventionalities, by re- 
maining loyal to the man who had forever 
cursed and blighted my life. I shall never for- 
get the expression upon Tronkhatchevsky's 
handsome face, B she continued dreamily, (( when 

36 



Tolstoi's Kreut^er Sonata. 

I made known to him the scene which had 
occurred between Posdnicheff and myself, and 
which had led to my decision. As a man 
might plead for his life, so he plead with me 
to relent, but I remained firm, telling him that 
upon the morrow we should meet for the last 
time. The morrow came, and with it our 
guests. Dinner passed off as dinners usually 
do, and then followed our music. I seated 
myself at the piano, a strange pain tugging at 
my heart. For the last time ! for the last time ! 
seemed to ring in my ears like a funeral dirge. 
I was trembling so violently that I could 
scarcely arrange the music. I am certain that 
Posdnicheff noticed my extreme nervousness, 
which I presume he considered due to my in- 
ferior talent, and the difficult accompaniment I 
was about to perform. Doubtless he also took 
note of the manner in which the eyes of 
Tronkhatchevsky and myself were riveted upon 
each other's face as I began giving the pitch. 
Tronkhatchevsky was as pale as death, but not 
a muscle of his face betrayed emotion, and his 
hand was perfectly steady as he drew the bow 
across the violin He leaned toward me for an 

37 



The Woman's Story of 

instant, under the pretense of a suggestion re- 
garding the music. ( Through this music my 
soul shall commune with yours, > he whispered; 
and the music we were about to perform was 
indeed that in which every passion of the hu- 
man heart is portrayed — for Beethoven, like 
Shakespeare, is the master delineator of every 
human passion, and the piece we were about 
to perform was Beethoven's wonderful Kreut- 
zer Sonata. If ever passion was portrayed in 
music, if ever one soul communed with another 
through the divine melody of sound, it was 
mine with that of Tronkhatchevsky, in his ex- 
quisite rendering of the Kreutzer Sonata. My 
accompaniment was wholly mechanical, for I 
was completely absorbed in the poem of sweet 
sound which the man (whom in spite of my- 
self) I so tenderly loved, was pouring into my 
soul. That first presto movement, ah ! I can 
hear it yet; it is like a great draught of wine, 
it intoxicates. The very soul of Tronkhatchev- 
sky mingled with that of mine in the sweet 
waves of melody, now soft and pleading, and 
anon sobbing with passion. All the music 
which followed this during the evening could 

3S 



Tolstoi's Kreut^er Sonata. 

not for an instant efface its impression. It 
seemed to have exerted an almost hypnotic in- 
fluence upon me, and the remainder of the 
evening Tronkhatchevsky's passion for me as 
expressed in his performance of that wonderful 
Kreutzer Sonata seemed to envelop me like a 
garment. 

(< A strange feeling of desolation came over 
me, as upon the departure of our last guest, I 
closed the piano; a dim, half-conscious feeling 
that in my loneliness I should never care to 
renew the remembrance of the happy hours 
with which the piano should ever be associated. 
Two days dragged wearily by, leaden days, 
gray with regret, and longings for that which I 
had voluntarily put out of my life. Days dur- 
ing which I strove with eager nervous energy, 
to engross myself with the children and house- 
hold affairs. At the close of these, Posdnicheff 
suddenly announced that he was about to leave 
home upon business which was to detain him 
about a week. His leaving home was always 
a cause of thanksgiving upon my part, but it 
was seldom he was detained longer than a 
couple of days. His absence for a week would 

39 



The Woman's Story of 

have been a source of unbounded satisfaction 
to me, had I not been bitterly depressed over 
the giving up of Tronkhatchevsky, toward 
whom, in spite of all determination otherwise, 
my obdurate heart would involuntarily turn. 
The morning of Posdnicheff's departure, there 
came to me a letter in a familiar hand, the 
sight of which sent the blood, with a bound, 
from heart to brain. It was from Tronkhat- 
chevsky, and stated that he had bade Posdnicheff 
farewell that morning at the station, and that 
his own plans were arranged for an immediate 
return to Paris, in all probability never to re- 
visit Russia. Then came a passionate entreaty 
to meet him once more for a final farewell. 
The intensity of this man's passion "for me was 
such that each sentence seemed to glow in 
jewel-like splendor. How long, think you, did 
my cold philosophical reason struggle in the 
current of such a passion ? My will once so 
strong, seemed now but a poor wind-tossed 
reed; and as one starving would eagerly grasp 
a morsel of food, so I hastened to let this man, 
for whose presence I would have sacrificed my 
life, know that on the morrow he might come 

40 



Tolstoi's Kreut^er Sonata. 

to me." She paused as if for breath, and her 
breathing grew difficult and labored, while 
again she pressed her hand convulsively to her 
left side, as though she fain would still a pain 
that was well-nigh unbearable. ft Let me 
hasten over this part of my experience which 
it almost takes my life to relate," she resumed, 
her voice hoarse with emotion. (< The following 
evening Tronkhatchevsky came; and as I look 
back upon that, the last happy evening of 
my life, I wonder that some premonition 
did not come to me that I was upon the eve 
of an awful tragedy. But no — naught save 
the knowledge that I was soon to part from 
the man I loved, marred those moments of 
perfect bliss. Ye gods ! }> she panted, <( how 
soon it was all over! The evening had flown 
so rapidly that we failed to note the lateness 
of the hour, which was something past one 
o'clock. Tronkhatchevsky and myself had re- 
paired to the dining-room to partake of some 
refreshments, when suddenly the door opened 
and we were confronted by Posdnicheff, who, pale 
as death, stood with hands clasped behind him. 
Doubtless the countenance of Tronkhatchevsky 

41 



The Woman's Story of 

and myself betrayed a mingled expression of 
surprise and fear, with perhaps a tinge of dis- 
pleasure at this sudden interruption. Tronk- 
hatchevsky was the first to break the silence. 
(< We have been practicing some music, B he 
remarked ; and then I ventured to exclaim : 
<( You are back sooner than you expected to 
be. 8 Not a word issued from the white lips of 
Posdnicheff, as with the fury of a madman he 
threw himself upon me, endeavoring to secrete 
from Tronkhatchevsky the dagger which he 
carried, in order, doubtless, that he might 
stab me in the throat or heart. But its glit- 
ter attracted Tronkhatchevsky's attention, and 
clutching Posdnicheff 's hands, he loudly cried: 
(< What are you doing ? Are you mad ? Help ! 
help! 8 

<( Never have I seen anything to compare with 
the hideousness of Posdnicheff's face as he tore 
his hands from the grasp of Tronkhatchevsky, 
and threw himself heavily upon him; but the 
livid face and purple lips, the protruding eyes 
and glittering dagger never swerved me for an 
instant from my determined effort to save the 
man I loved; and hurling myself upon his left 

42 



Tolstoi's Kreut^er Sonata. 

arm, I bore down heavily upon him. He strove 
to throw me off, but I bore more heavily still, 
giving Tronkhatchevsky an opportunity to escape 
with his life. Summoning all his strength, Posd- 
nicheff struck me full in the face. With a 
scream I fell upon the sofa, crying out : ( There 
is no wrong between us ! None ! None ! I 
swear it ! i My words seemed to increase his 
fury, for catching me by the throat he shook 
me so violently as to almost strangle me. With 
both hands I clung to his, endeavoring to tear 
them from my throat, when suddenly he buried 
the dagger in my left side between the lower 
ribs. My God ! B she frantically exclaimed, her 
small scarred hand pressing against the spot 
where the fatal dagger had pierced, (< there has 
not been a day, not even an hour, since then, 
that I have not felt the pain of that dagger's 
plunge just as I felt it then. I clutched at the 
dagger with both hands, almost severing my 
fingers, but could not ward off the blow. How- 
ever, not satisfied with as he supposed murder- 
ing me, he dashed me from the couch to the 
floor, and planting his foot on my face, left 
thereupon the accursed mutilation which was 

43 



The Woman's Story of 

forever to mark me a monstrosity — a creature 
to be shunned by all her fellows. I have a 
vague recollection at this juncture of the old 
nurse entering, having been attracted by the 
noise; then, as a jet of blood burst forth, for a 
time I knew no more. When I recovered con- 
sciousness, the first thing of which I was cog- 
nizant was the smell of antiseptics in the 
room, and the next, that I was lying upon the 
bed propped up very high with cushions. Just 
then Posdnicheff entered, and nearing the bed- 
side, stood gazing upon me. At sight of him 
all the horror of the past scene flashed into my 
mind, and I remember exclaiming in a weak 
voice: ( You have killed me, and you shall not 
have any of my children; they shall go to my 
sister. I hate you ! Oh, how I hate you ! * Then 
I grew very cold and speechless. I knew all 
that was going on about me, and yet was power- 
less to speak or move. Fedorovich, my faithful 
physician, of whom Posdnicheff had ever been 
so jealous, came to the bedside, and examining 
my pulse, exclaimed: ( She is dead!* Then came 
all the hideous preparations of death, even to 
the placing of my body in a coffin. Great God ! 

44 



Tolstoi's Kreut^er Sonata. 

my tongue is powerless to titter all the horror 
I endured. I even knew when the shadows of 
twilight began to gather, and my little band of 
weeping children were led from the room by 
their old nurse, leaving me alone to the night 
and the horror of my situation. A few hours 
elapsed, and I again heard footsteps and the 
sound of subdued voices. Nearer and nearer 
they came, until they paused beside my coffin. 
One was the voice of my old nurse, the other 
(although somewhat disguised) was the voice 
which to me there was none other like. ( I 
came here at the request of Father Lyof, who 
is too ill to come himself, i the soft, musical voice 
went on to explain. ( I am the priest from a 
neighboring village. > The old nurse crossed 
herself reverently in his presence, and left him, 
as she supposed, alone with the dead. Gently 
he lifted the cloths from my bruised, discolored 
face, and gazed down upon me. ( Great Heav- 
ens V he exclaimed, and started back in surprise. 
Was I so hideous, then, that even he recoiled 
from me ? was the thought which first suggested 
itself. He lifted my cold, bandaged hands, 
stroking them caressingly as he murmured: 

45 



7he Woman's Story of 

( Poor, poor girl ! who would have ever dreamed 
of this ? Ah God ! gladly I would give my life 
to recall yours for a single moment.' 

<( How his touch thrilled me ! Little waves of 
electricity seemed to flash down my frozen 
veins. He leaned forward and kissed me, and 
I felt a great tear-drop splash upon my face. 
This tear-drop of human sympathy, this mag- 
netic caress from the man I adored, seemed to 
infuse within me a new life. I put forth a tre- 
mendous effort, a great sigh escaped my lips, 
which caused Tronkhatchersky to bend eagerly 
over the coffin. ( Save me ! } I faintly gasped ! 
( Merciful Heaven ! > he exclaimed, ( they are 
burying her alive ! > He lifted my head, and 
held me for an instant in his strong embrace. 
( Thank God that I am in time to rescue you ! * 
he whispered hurriedly. ( But, remember, all 
depends upon perfect silence on your part. Be 
strong, darling. In one hour I will return, and 
then, you are mine, mine forever! y How his 
words echoed and re-echoed throughout my 
brain! From the depths of Hades I had sud- 
denly been ushered into Heaven. The loathsome 
coffin, in which the most terrible moments of 

46 




«HE LIFTED ME FROM THE COFFIN AS THOUGH I HAD 
BEEN, A CHILD. » 



Tolstoi's Kreut^er Sonata. 

my life had been spent, suddenly became a 
downy couch of sweetest repose. The fear, the 
horror of it all had vanished; for had it not 
given to me my lover ? To my confused brain 
I seemed actually to have been dead, so vivid 
was my remembrance of the awful murder 
scene, so horribly real the comatose condition 
from which I was recovering. Once during the 
absence of Tronkhatchevsky, the old nurse came 
into the room, and I trembled, lest she detect 
the loud throbbing of my heart, but no, she 
simply snuffed the candles, relighted a few 
others, and went her way again. Just before 
the arrival of Tronkhatchevsky, every moment 
seemed an age, all sorts of weird fancies and 
wild forebodings took possession of me. When 
he did finally arrive, he entered the room so 
stealthily that I was not aware of his presence 
until he stood at my side. ( Courage, dearest ! > 
he whispered. ( A few moments more, and all 
will be well.* He placed a heavy sack on the 
floor beside me, and returned almost imme- 
diately, bearing another of equal weight. Plac- 
ing it beside the first, he lifted me from the 
coffin as though I had been a child, and so 

47 



The Woman's Story of 

quick and deft were his movements that ere I 
was aware of it, I found myself in a close cab 
which was in near waiting. I learned after- 
ward that the sacks contained one hundred and 
thirty pounds of lead, and that Tronkhatchevsky 
hurriedly placed them in the coffin, taking care 
to put on the lid, which he screwed tightly 
down. Having completed his plan, he imme- 
diately sought the old nurse, to whom he gave 
strict charge, that upon no condition whatever 
was the lid to be removed from the coffin: 
( For, > he explained, ( not only is the body 
beginning to decompose, but it is sacrilegious 
thus to expose the mutilated countenance of a 
murdered woman to the gaze of the curious; 
and when the undertaker arrives upon the mor- 
row, say to him, my good woman, that this is 
the priest's command.' Reverently crossing 
herself, the old woman assured the supposed 
priest that his order should be executed, for to 
the pious Catholic a priest's slightest wish is 
not to be disregarded, and hence, relieved of 
all forebodings upon that score, Tronkhat- 
chevsky sprang lightly into the cab, and drove 
rapidly away. }> 

4 3 



Tolstoi's Kreut^er Sonata. 



CHAPTER IV. 

<( I no sooner entered the carriage than I be- 
came again totally unconscious, and so precarious 
was my condition that to drive farther than the 
neighboring village would have been to still 
more surely endanger my life. Tronkhatchevsky, 
too, was running a risk, by remaining longer in 
Russia; and in his priest's garb he cautiously 
entered a private hospital, where he deposited 
a sufficient sum to insure me the best treat- 
ment, and imposed upon the credulity of the 
institution to such an extent as to lead them to 
believe that I was an only sister, who having 
met with a severe accident, he intrusted to their 
care during an absence on his part, compelled 
by most pressing ecclesiastical duties. He also 
succeeded in so profoundly impressing them in 
his favor, that they bade him an almost affec- 
tionate adieu, tendering him implicit assurance 
that his most minute directions should be faith- 
fully executed, one of which was to notify him 
daily of my condition, and should I recover, to 
send me in the care of a competent nurse to 

4. 49 



The Woman's Story of 

his address in Paris. Never shall I forget my 
convalescence, 8 she continued, while her eyes 
took on a far-away expression. (< Never shall I 
forget the impatience with which I waited the 
letters that came so regularly from Tronkhat- 
chevsky, nor my feverish longing for the day 
upon which I was to go to him. The past 
seemed a blank to me. Even my children were 
forgotten. I was as one resurrected from the 
dead; a new life, roseate-hued with youthful 
dreams seemed to stretch itself before me. One 
of my foibles (perhaps the chief) was pride in 
my personal appearance; but upon my first dis- 
covery that my hands (which were my especial 
pride) had been scarred and disfigured forever, 
I immediately set about to discover if fate had 
dealt more kindly with my face; but a mirror 
was promptly refused me, and I had only the 
beauty of my magnificent hair with which to 
console myself. I was totally ignorant of the 
fact that not only was my beauty of counte- 
nance destroyed, but that I had been rendered 
positively revolting; and when the truth was 
first revealed to me, and from the mirror, in- 
stead of the pink and white beauty so pleasing 

50 



Tolstoi's Kreut^er Sonata. 

to my sight, there stared back at me a hideous, 
blanched, and disfigured face, I wept for days 
and nights, refusing to be comforted, lest the 
awful change lessen the love of him whom I 
now so madly worshipped. Long, tear-stained 
letters I wrote to him, letters in which I laid 
bare all the anguish of my tortured soul, all my 
fears, and misgivings, and it was not until strong, 
comforting letters in his own familiar hand were 
returned to me, that my sorrow was lessened, 
and once more, — I dared to hope. 

<( As I look back upon that morning, more than 
thirty years ago, when I quitted Russia forever, 
it seems to me a whole lifetime has elapsed. 
For months, my every thought had been one 
continued dream of meeting Tronkhatchevsky. 
In my weakened physical condition, I was as 
one who had been hypnotized. I seemed to 
feel and see only through Tronkhatchevsky. 
My great, absorbing passion for him had de- 
prived me of my personality, woman's chief, 
charm. My love was a morbid, consuming pas- 
sion, which for the time dwarfed, as it were, 
my mentality. As I look back upon that mis- 
erable, pitiful moment of ecstatic bliss, when in 

51 



The Woman's Story of 

Paris I was once more reunited to Tronkhatchev- 
sky, every fibre of my body tingles with scorn. 
It is unnecessary for me to detail our meeting. 
It would have been the one supreme moment 
of my life, had there not weighed heavily upon 
me the fear lest my lover's devotion be lessened 
through my loss of beauty. I was heavily veiled, 
and for hours refused every entreaty upon his 
part to uncover my face. The sound of his soft 
musical voice thrilled me with foolish ecstasy. 
I was mad with joy to feel his arms about me 
once more, to hear him whisper sweet nothings 
which to me meant everything; to listen to his 
praise of my voice — my exquisite form ; to hear 
his ardent assurance that no physical change 
could ever in the least affect his devotion to 
me, and with his arms close about me to hear 
him call me his own. His — entirely and com- 
pletely his — I who had been dead and was now 
resurrected that I might live again, as it were, 
in another world. Ah! the mad joy of the mo- 
ment was too intense to last.** She paused, 
panting for breath; a strange light gleamed in 
her eyes, which suddenly faded away, giving 
place to a look of bitter scorn. (< Bah ! }) she 



Tolstoi's Kreut^er Sonata. 

continued with a shudder, <( why recall all this ? 
But, w she slowly added, while a bitter laugh es- 
caped her white lips, (< what matters it after all 
to one whose heart has turned to stone ? 
Swiftly as the approach of a hurricane, happi- 
ness gave place to despair. I lifted the veil 
from my face, and Tronkhatchevsky positively 
recoiled from my presence. There was a look 
of horror upon his handsome face, which he 
was plainly struggling to conceal. He arose 
with bowed head, his long, white fingers cover- 
ing his beautiful eyes, and walking slowly across 
the room, paused at the door. ( Poor maimed 
darling ! ) he exclaimed, ( I am totally unpre- 
pared for this — I must be alone for a little 
while. ) And with the look of horror upon his 
face, he unceremoniously left the room. It was 
the last time I ever beheld him. Swift as an 
electric stroke was the metamorphosis I under- 
went. From a loving, trusting woman, I was 
transformed to a creature whose hatred for man 
was so fierce as to almost consume my vitality. 
I tarried not a moment in Paris, but quitted it 
forever, and coming immediately to England, 
entered this neighboring convent as a nun, and 

53 



The Woman's Story of 

here for thirty years I have tried in vain to live 
a life of holiness and peace; tried in vain to 
conquer my hatred for your sex, sufficiently, at 
least, to seek absolution through the Confessional ; 
but not until I beheld your life of lowliness and 
self-sacrifice, could I bring myself to believe 
that any goodness dwelt in man; and to you, 
and you only, I felt that I could reveal the his- 
tory of my shattered life." The sweet passion- 
ate voice had ceased its story, and the monk 
with bowed head conducted her to the Confess- 
ional. 

<( Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine 
Patris, et Felii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.* 
His words were broken by sobs, but they 
brought sweet peace to the tired spirit of the 
nun. Issuing from the Confessional, the monk 
exclaimed : <( Daughter, since both you and I 
have forsworn all mortal passion, I would free 
your heart of its bitterness toward the man 
who with you has sinned. I would not shield 
him, for his sin has been greater than yours, 
and his suffering equal; and yet, you were 
hasty in your misjudgment of him. He sought 
you all over Europe, and finding you not, his 

54 



Tolstoi's Kreut^er Sonata. 

entire life has been devoted to ministering to 
others. a <( Do you know whereof you speak ? M 
asked the nun with a queer tremor in her 
voice. The monk lifted his head, and the two 
looked at each other. All traces of age and 
sorrow in the face of the Benedictine seemed 
suddenly to have disappeared. True, the hair 
on his brow was snowy and thin; the long 
fingers, once so white and shapely, were now 
hard and worn with toil; the master hand of 
the artist had lost its cunning; but the beauti- 
ful eyes, which in the long ago had found their 
way into the heart of Posdnicheff's wife were 
the same. The face, too, at this instant wore 
its old familiar aspect, save that it was spirit- 
ualized, glorified, shining, as it were, with an 
ethereal light. With a glad cry of recognition 
the nun sprang to her feet, and the two stood 
gazing into each other's faces in mute rapture. 
They were like two spirits of another world, 
who having undergone the mysteries of life 
and death, stood calmly looking back upon it 
all. There was not a vestige of earthly passion 
in the riveted gaze which so plainly reflected 
the splendor of their mutual love; and as death 

55 



Story of Tolstoi's Kreut^er Sonata. 

ofttimes destroys the lines of age upon a face, 
and imprints upon the frozen image a smile, 
so, by some strange revulsion, at this eventful 
moment the poor scarred face of the . nun as- 
sumed its old-time beauty. These people, who 
had suffered so long and so deeply, who loved 
each other with an exalted passion seldom 
known to mortals, and who were soon to part 
forever, stood looking into each other's eyes as 
though they fain would gaze forever. It was a 
marriage of soul, and the union was complete. 
They did not even clasp hands in parting; their 
love was too high, too exalted, to partake of 
aught that was earthly. For one brief instant 
the nun knelt at the feet of the monk for his 
blessing. (< Bendicat vos omnipoteus Deus, 
Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus," he slowly 
repeated. "Amen,* came the reverent re- 
sponse; and swiftly and silently the slight, 
dark-robed figure glided out into the night, 
and away from his presence forever. 



[Reprinted through the courtesy of K Frank Leslie's Popular 
Monthly."] 



56 



ROMANCE OF A KENTUCKIAN 

IN ST. AUGUSTINE 

« « « 

CHAPTER I. 

fpHE season at St. Augustine was at its height, 
<ir[a> and the Ponce de Leon thronged with gay- 
pleasure seekers, with a small scattering of 
their less fortunate fellows, who hoped in the 
balmy sea air of the quaint little Spanish city 
to woo back the fickle goddess, health. 

In the spacious dining salon, where each 
artistic appointment breathes the rich sensuous 
Renaissance spirit, at a table near one of the 
great oak pillars supporting the dome sat a 
man of such Herculean form and beauty of 
countenance as is found most often among the 
men of Kentucky. Magnificently proportioned, 
he carried himself like a god; his regal head 
was poised upon a full round throat; his gray 

57 



Romance of a Kentuckian 

eyes, changeable with emotion, smiled from 
beneath a broad low brow, smooth and white 
as a woman's, and about which clustered rich, 
slightly curling brown hair, while above a pair 
of beautiful red lips curled a perfectly kept 
golden-brown mustache. 

This magnificent Adonis of the famous Blue 
Grass region of Kentucky bore the sensation 
his appearance always created with the utmost 
sang-froid. While awaiting his dinner order, al- 
though seemingly absorbed in the allegorical 
illustrations of the stained glass windows oppo- 
site him, he nevertheless started perceptibly as 
a tall, beautiful blonde, together with an elderly 
woman, entered the dining-room. 

Grace Ashmore was a beauty, an heiress, and 
withal, a heartless coquette, although her 
friends credited her with at last having sur- 
rendered her heart (if she possessed that seem- 
ingly unnecessary and unfashionable appendage 
of the nineteenth century) to the young Ken- 
tuckian, who was far handsomer than any of 
the New Yorkers who had followed the beauti- 
ful heiress to the Ponce; moreover, he combined 
with esprit and faultless manners a certain 



in St. Augustine. 

warmth and enthusiasm which characterize the 
men of Kentucky. It was as if he had ab- 
sorbed something of the sunshine of his native 
land, something of the beauty and massiveness 
of its splendid fields and rolling meadows. 

From the minstrels' gallery above, sweet 
music floated down the vast brilliantly lighted 
dining-room, and as Grace Ashmore quitted it, 
she seemed in her undulating, serpentine grace 
a very poem set to the melody of sound. 
Throwing a light fleecy wrap about her shoul- 
ders, she stepped into the outer court with her 
chaperon, where she was speedily joined by 
the handsome Kentuckian, George Allen Van 
Zant. 

It was a perfect February night and the 
tropical splendor of the court brilliant with its 
brightly colored flowers, its electric fountains, 
gleaming like strands of rainbow colored gems; 
its vines from which depended myriads of 
bright-hued blossoms; its graceful palmettos, 
and over all its oriental splendor and glowing 
beauty; the wafted odor of its wilderness of 
roses, mingled with the faint perfume of the 
orange grove beyond, made it a very Eden for 

59 



Romance of a Kentuckian 

lovers, even though encumbered by a chap- 
eron. Strolling through the court chatting 
gaily, the trio came suddenly upon a little 
crouching figure, whose flowing blue-black 
tresses were picturesquely crowned with a 
wreath of scarlet pomegranite blossoms, and 
whose small daintily poised head was turned 
sidewise, canary-like, to catch every strain of 
music with which the orchestra was flooding the 
Ponce. 

<( A pretty picture, and well deserving this 
oriental setting, B murmured the chaperon point- 
ing toward the child. 

(< That is Petronilla Pedro, a little Spanish 
flower girl who is music mad," replied the 
Kentuckian. 

At the sound of approaching voices the child 
sprang to her feet, bearing lightly upon her 
arm a basket of flowers. Recognizing the 
handsome Kentuckian, who was not only a lib- 
eral purchaser of her posies, but whom upon 
learning the little maiden's passion for music, 
had promised her lessons of the Cathedral 
organist, she smilingly approached him and 
timidly tendered him a beautiful tea-rose, 

60 



in St. Augustine. 

Touching the little flower-crowned head ten- 
derly he offered her a coin, but she folded her 
tiny brown hands across her breast, and shak- 
ing her head replied: (< It is a gift." Thanking 
her kindly the young man turned towards 
Grace Ashmore and would have fastened the 
rose in her wealth of golden hair, but the small 
Petronilla anticipated his movement, and spring- 
ing toward him with the ferocity of a young 
tigress, snatched the rose from his hand, scat- 
tered the petals upon the ground, and stamping 
them under her tiny feet fled rapidly from the 
court. 

(< Whew," whistled the nonplussed young man, 
(< my little protegee seems to have misunderstood 
my attempted reverence for her gift. I wish I 
could overtake and console her. " A peal of 
merry laughter greeted his remark. (< Nonsense, 
Colonel Van Zant," replied the beautiful Grace, 
<( Do you not see that the little vixen is jealous 
of me?" 

(< Jealous ! " reiterated the young man incred- 
ulously, ff Why she is but a baby." 

<( Yes, jealous," laughed the beauty. (( A little 
Spanish woman in embryo; and I promise you, 

61 



Romance of a Kentuckian 

were she grown up, I would not care to have 
such a fury cross my pathway. Why the little 
monster's eyes gleamed vengeance and destruc- 
tion. 8 

Meanwhile the "Little Monster, B as the fair 
New Yorker termed her, was speeding down 
the street with throbbing heart and tear-wet 
eyes. On — on she went, never pausing until 
she reached the sea wall, where she suddenly 
stopped, and kneeling down, gazed far out sea- 
ward; for to the child, over that vast expanse 
of water, there seemed ever to linger a sadness, 
in harmony with her own lonely little life. 
Suddenly a pair of strong hands lifted the sob- 
bing child to her feet and a kindly voice 
exclaimed, (< Heigho ! little girl, are you crying 
because you couldn't sell your posies ? B and 
thrusting twice the price of the flowers into her 
hand, he was gone. It was a handsome face 
that looked down into that of the little flower 
girl, but it was not the face of George Van 
Zant, and the sobbing little creature was in no 
wise comforted; for this small "music mad" 
Spanish maiden was desperately and passion- 
ately in love with the handsome Kentuckian. 

62 



in St. Augustine. 

CHAPTER II. 

The following day, and indeed for several 
successive days, did George Van Zant haunt the 
courts of the Ponce, hoping to meet and con- 
ciliate the little creature whose feelings he had 
so unwittingly outraged. It was not, however, 
until a week subsequent, when strolling alone 
in the vicinity of the Old Fort that he chanced 
across her. 

<( Roses ! — fresh roses ! B called the clear treble 
child voice; and then, finding herself face to 
face with her hero, rich waves of color rushed 
to the little olive face, and the great star-like 
eyes filled with tears. 

<( Petronilla ! what have I done to offend you 
that you shun me thus ? B asked the young man 
drawing her to him. If you, my reader, could 
have listened to the music of the man's voice, 
could have looked upon the beauty of his face, 
the magnificence of his form, and could have 
felt the magnetism of his presence, you would 
not have wondered at the pair of little brown 
hands which clasped themselves about his neck, 
and the broken little voice which sobbed out : — 

63 



Romance of a Kentuckian 

<( I love you — and you — you — love her — the 
woman to whom you would have given my 
rose, w and then withdrawing herself from his 
embrace, with a quaint touch of dignity, mingled 
with something of the fierceness which ran riot 
in her Spanish blood, stamping her little, arched 
foot like a tragedy queen, she exclaimed: — 

<( I hate her ! I hate her ! B (< Listen Petronilla, 
you little untamed wild bird, B exclaimed the 
young man persuasively, <( do you not know that 
the beautiful woman to whom I would have 
given your rose is my promised wife ? and who 
knows but that she might learn to love you as 
I do, and then we w 

<( Never ! Never ! }> fiercely interrupted the 
child. (( I hate her. I would murder her, B and 
throwing herself at his feet, she wept as though 
her very heart would break, and as the young 
man gazed down upon the agonized little form 
at his feet, he felt he would have given much 
to have seen one tithe of the sentiment this 
child felt for him expressed by the cold beauti- 
ful woman who had promised to become his 
wife. Suddenly, as though she had evolved 
some revelation, she sprang to her feet, her 

6 4 




<( I LOVE YOU, AND YOU — YOU LOVE HER.» 



in St. Augustine. 

dark tear-gemmed eyes sparkling, and seizing 
both the young man's hands, exclaimed: — 

<( Seignior, she will never become your wife, 
never — never; something tells me so. Then 
when I am quite grown up you will find me, 
and I will marry you.^ 

Pleased that the child's fancy should be of 
comfort to her, he replied: — 

<( Yes, Petronilla, if my promised wife proves 
me false, I will never marry unless I marry 
you; and now, as I go away to-morrow, what 
shall I give my little sweetheart by which to 
remember me most pleasantly ? B 

(( A ring, Seignior, M replied the child gravely, 
<( I will wear it until you come for me. w 

The pretty turquoise ring which the young 
man bought and placed upon the finger of his 
devoted little protegee was not his only gift to 
her. The Cathedral organist received a year's 
tuition, with instructions to teach the (( music 
mad }> little maiden to sing; and when, two 
years later, the little girl's pure, beautiful so- 
prano rang out through the old Cathedral, as 
clear and as sweet as a trill from the mocking 
birds she loved to imitate, so entranced with 
5 65 



Romance of a Kentuckian 

her voice became a wealthy Englishwoman that 
she carried the little Southern song-bird back to 
her English home, there to give her the advan- 
tages of which she must have otherwise been 
deprived. 



CHAPTER III. 

The Opera House at Lexington (fairest city 
of all the fair ones in the grand old State of 
Kentucky) was filled to overflowing with an 
audience eager to hear the new songstress, who 
had taken Europe by storm and who upon com- 
ing to New York had sung to crowded and 
enthusiastic audiences for a week, when she 
suddenly and capriciously threw up her engage- 
ment, declaring that she would make a tour of 
Kentucky at once, or return to Europe; and 
her long-suffering manager, driven to despera- 
tion through the fear of losing her, had been 
compelled to accept her conditions. 

The rising curtain revealed to the eager Ken- 
tucky audience the slight, beautiful, rounded 
figure of a young girl whose delicate oval face 

66 




«THE SLIGHT, BEAUTIFULLY ROUNDED FIGURE OF 
A YOUNG GIRL. w 



in St. Augustine. 

seemed almost child-like, and whose dark velvet 
eyes glanced inquiringly over the audience, as 
though seeking some familiar face. Suddenly 
her eyes rested upon a figure kingly in its mag- 
nificence, and crowned with the head and face 
of an Adonis; rested long and earnestly, as 
though fain to rest there forever. The entire 
audience watched the prima donna with intense 
admiration (with the exception of the one man 
upon whom she gazed as though fascinated, and 
unable to turn away). Suddenly he looked at 
her, but in his great luminous eyes there was 
not the slightest gleam of recognition, nor even 
of interest; he glanced at her coldly and turned 
away. Every vestige of color faded from the 
girl's face. She stood before her audience color- 
less as a bit of sculptured marble. The orches- 
tra had ended its prelude and was waiting for 
her. It recalled her to herself, and the voice 
which fell upon the ears of the listening audi- 
ence thrilled with such rich, passionate pathos, 
such tender, plaintive appeal that there were 
many tear- wet eyes when the curtain fell. 

"Quick,* demanded the prima donna of an 
attendant (while the orchestra played between 

67 



Romance of a Kentuckian 

the acts), "bring here the Opera House man- 
ager until I speak to him. ^ Her command was 
no sooner spoken than obeyed. 

w At your service, )} exclaimed the manager of 
the Opera House, bowing low. 

<( Tell me, quick ! B exclaimed the girl imperi- 
ously, <( The man in the box, to the right, is it 
George Van Zant ? w 

(( It is Colonel Van Zant, Miss, B was the re- 
ply. <( He is an old-time friend of mine," she 
replied, <( tell me of him, is he married ? >5 

(( Married ? No ! w answered the manager. 
<( He was to have married a beautiful New 
Yorker, they say, but about ten years ago a 
spell of illness left him totally and incurably 
blind, and the girl refused to marry him. Shall 
I send him your card, Miss ? >y 

(< No, not for the world, * answered the girl 
waving his dismissal; and this time there was 
a thrill of such unmistakable pleasure in her 
voice that the man wondered at it, thinking to 
himself, that (< foreigners were a queer lot any 
way. M 

The curtain arose for the second act, and the 
audience bent forward in pleased surprise at the 

68 



in St. Augustine. 

radiant creature who appeared before them, her 
cheeks glowing, her great star-like eyes shining 
with happy excitement — and her voice — (could 
it be the same to which they had listened a 
few moments before ?) soared in a wonderful 
burst of glad melody, until her listeners asked 
themselves if the singer were not more than 
mortal — and wondered, too, what had wrought 
in the capricious songstress such change. Surely, 
child-like, although she seemed, she could not 
have been intimidated, for had she not sung 
before the crowned heads of Europe ? No, they 
told themselves, she was simply as great an 
actress as singer, and wooed her hearers to 
laughter, or tears, at her will. Sweeter, fuller, 
clearer, soared the beautiful voice, replete with 
joyous melody. The audience was breath- 
less with delight, and the soul of the blind man, 
for whom, all unknown, was poured out this 
flood of melody, reveled in its beauty. The 
beautiful sightless eyes of the blind Adonis 
smiled, even as they had done in the long 
ago; and to the song queen, upon whose 
voice the listening people hung entranced, that 
smile brought the same rapture that it did ten 



Romance of a Kenluckian 

years ago to the little Spanish flower girl, 
whose sunshine it was, and from whose memory 
it had never been effaced. 



CHAPTER IV. 

It was one of those perfect days found only 
in June; and a June day in central Kentucky 
is the embodiment of all that is beautiful in 
nature, a bouquet of her fairest culling, a rhap- 
sody-flower scented and roseate-hued, set to the 
melody of singing birds, and whispering zephyr- 
kissed leaves. Such was the day following the 
evening of the great prima donna's appearance 
in Lexington, and when that capricious little 
bohemian ordered her driver to stop the car- 
riage a quarter of a mile the other side of Col- 
onel Van Zant's residence and await her return, 
it created no surprise, such as similar con- 
duct upon the part of a well-regulated young 
lady would have caused. 

The girl paused and drew a long breath, as 
though fain to drink in some of the beauty and 
freshness about her. The sun was golden in 
the clear azure of the heavens, and through the 

70 



in St. Augustine. 

grand old forest trees, it sifted a shower of 
amber gems, which, gleamed upon the mossy 
turf beneath. Leaves stirred lazily in the warm 
perfumed air, and birds sang far and near, as 
though in compliment to the sweet singer who 
listened to them, while about her on every side 
spread fields and meadows, in all the broad roll- 
ing magnificence which marks the blue grass 
region of Kentucky. She proceeded slowly 
towards the grounds surrounding the Colonel's 
home. It was not unlike most Kentucky subur- 
ban homes, spacious, old-fashioned, and almost 
hidden from the roadside view by the gigantic 
oaks, which were a prominent feature of the 
fine old park in which it stood. Having entered 
the grounds she stopped suddenly, for upon a 
rustic bench beneath a canopy of trees, his 
hands folded, his beautiful sightless eyes gazing 
upon vacancy, sat Colonel Van Zant. Trembling 
she softly approached and stood silently looking 
at him. Tears rained down her cheeks as she 
gazed upon the strong man, helpless as a little 
child. She drew nearer, and took his hand. 

(< Mr. George — Colonel Van Zant. B He arose, 
smiling and surprised. <( You do not know me, 

71 



Romance of a Kentuckian 

you did not know you were listening last night 
to your little ( music mad y Petronilla Pedro ? w 
A pleased expression of surprise mantled his 
face, and he cordially clasped both of the little 
singer's hands in his own as he seated her be- 
side him. 

<( Petronilla ! my child, B he said, <( this is a 
pleasure I never anticipated. Years ago I wrote 
to St. Augustine, but could not trace your 
whereabouts. B 

^Then you had not forgotten me," exclaimed 
the girl eagerly. 

« Forgotten you! no indeed, w he replied, <( but 
how should I know that the great prima donna 
who had turned half the heads in Europe was 
my baby sweetheart of St. Augustine; and now, 
my child, tell me all about yourself, what you 
are doing, and where you are going. w 

How lightly he speaks, thought the girl, and 
never refers to his own great misfortune. <( I 
came to this country, not for laurels, or money, 
but — but because — I wanted to find you, Mr. 
George, w she answered simply. 

(< Ah ! * he replied, (< my little Petronilla im- 
agines herself indebted to me, because I first 

72 



in St. Augustine. 

placed her upon the road to success, and how 
wonderfully she has compensated me, leaving 
me the debtor after the rare feast of last night. }> 
Great tears welled up in the velvety brown 
eyes, and throwing her arms about his neck, in 
utter childlike abandonment, she sobbed: — 

(< Mr. George — will you never understand 
— I came because — because — I love you — and 
because I want never to leave you. 8 

(< Dear little Petronilla, B he answered, (< I could 
never accept such a sacrifice. w Could the blind 
man have seen the worshipful passion which 
radiated the glowing face and beamed from the 
starlike eyes of this child of nature, he would 
not have felt her love to be a sacrifice; but 
alas — he only felt the deep affliction, the mighty 
gulf which he could not expect woman's love 
to ever bridge. Suddenly the little hands un- 
clasped themselves from about his neck, and, 
with a certain touch of dignity, the girl ex- 
claimed : — 

<( I deserve rebuke, in that I have disregarded 
the restriction society places upon my sex. I 
have betrayed to you my love, forgetting that 
yours was given to another long years ago. }> 

73 



Romance of a Kentuckian 

<( Petronilla ! }) — the hands of the blind man 
groped aimlessly until they touched the little, 
trembling arm of the sobbing girl, and drawing 
her within his embrace, he exclaimed, (< Petro- 
nilla, for God's sake, my darling, do not misun- 
derstand me. When this terrible affliction came 
upon me, and I found the woman who had 
promised to become my wife had deserted me, 
I longed for you, child though you were, as 
only a man can long for the one thing in life 
left for him to love, and as I compared your 
ardent love for me with that of the woman 
whom your childish prophecy declared should 
never become my wife, it was as a ray of sun- 
shine beside a miserable, flickering taper. I 
searched for you, but in vain; and now — now 
that you are here, in the radiance of your 
young beauty, and the glory of your magnifi- 
cent matchless voice, here, with the world in 
adoration at your feet, can you not feel with 
me, my darling, the presumption it would be 
for a helpless, blind man to accept the priceless 
treasure of your love ? B 

Very slowly she spoke to him now, and with 
her arms close about his neck once more, and 

74 



in St. Augustine. 

the glory of her splendid love illuminating her 
countenance. <( I only know," she said, <( that 
ever since I looked upon your face, ten years 
ago, I have loved you, nay, worshipped you 
madly. I only know that I can never love 
another, having loved you; and that to-day I 
would gladly exchange the position I occupy 
for that of the homeless flower girl, if thereby 
I might be permitted to become your servant. * 

Very softly and reverently the blind Adonis 
made reply, as he held the happy girl in his 
arms: — 

C( Petronilla, my precious wife, in depriving 
me of my sight, God has given me a far more 
priceless jewel. B 

Let us draw the leafy canopy, beneath which 
the happy lovers rested, close about them, and 
intrude no farther upon the sacredness which 
belongs to perfect love. 

The speedy marriage of Colonel Van Zant to 
the great prima donna gave rise to much com- 
ment and many theories. Some said the 
Colonel had educated her, that he might sel- 
fishly appropriate her to himself, when her 
success was at its zenith; while others declared 

75 



Romance of a Kentuckian in St. Augustine. 

her a designing creature, who married Colonel 
Van Zant for a name. Suffice it to say, that in 
all Kentucky there is not a happier couple than 
George Van Zant and his beautiful wife, who 
proudly bears upon her jeweled hand a certain 
little turquoise ring with which she says the 
Colonel presented her when a baby, as her en- 
gagement ring. 

[Reprinted through the courtesy of Frank Leslie's « Popular 
Monthly Magazine. "J 



76 



LITTLE JEAN'S THEFT 



IpjpE looked so out of place among those de- 
o^& bauched criminals, as he stood — a forlorn 
tiny midget in the New York Police Court. 
One by one the motley crew pressed forward 
and received their sentence. Women, whose 
painted, shameless faces bore not a trace of 
purity or womanhood; and men, from whose 
visage one turned and shuddered, wondering if 
they ever bore the stamp of childhood's inno- 
cence. 

The Judge turned to the lad. How pinched 
and small he was. A mop of tangled, yellow 
curls formed a sort of halo about the little 
white face, and dark rings encircled the clear 
blue eyes. With the great toe of his little bare 
foot he formed circles on the dusty floor, as is 
the wont of children when in shame. 

77 



Little Jean's Theft. 

<( Look up, my boy!" the Judge exclaimed. 
(< Yours is a curious theft, this stealing flowers, 
and I am told this is your third offense. Now 
had you stolen that to eat, t'would not have 
seemed so strange, but flowers, always flowers. 
Now tell me, lad, what it is tempts you thus to 
steal these flowers, and from a stall where fruit 
and candy lay within your reach. " 

• The boy looked up. Great tear-drops trickled 
down his worn white cheeks, which bore traces 
of the grimy little hands that brushed them off. 

"Please, sir," he made reply, <( before I came 
to live in this great town, where all the streets 
are brick, I lived alone with mother and our 
flowers. But she was sick, and all the time 
she coughed, and white and thinner grew, and 
one day, sir, — the last before she died, — she 
took some flowers, and giving them to me, said : 
( Little Jean, whenever you see flowers, think 
of me;' and, sir — I live up many flights of 
steps, quite near the sky — and when I have a 
flower, I'm up so high, I'm sure she sees, and 
smiles to know I think of her; and when I 
hold the flower and go to sleep, my mother 
always comes and kisses me." 

78 



Little Jean's Theft. 

The Judge's cheeks were wet with tears. 

<( God bless you, boy, * he said, (( as sweet a 
flower as you, my child, shall not fade for want 
of tender care.'* 

The child had found a protector; yet still, as 
the cherished pet of a happy home, his sweetest 
joy is to gather flowers, and show the angel 
mother that (< Little Jean B still thinks of her. 



79 



NUMBER FOURTEEN 



wn a Mott Street tenement house in New 
$* York, where the air is heavy with that com- 
bined polution peculiar only to the over-crowded 
hovels of poverty, there recently occurred a 
scene witnessed alone by the Omnipotent. 
Stretched upon a miserable cot, an emaciated 
lad of twelve years lay dying. Beside him 
knelt a weeping woman, who clasped the 
small cold hands with an anguish known only 
to mothers. The two were alone, when there 
suddenly appeared upon the scene a man, — one 
whose hair was prematurely white, and whose 
gaunt, trembling form was bowed, but not with 
age. Ten years had elapsed since the man be- 
held his family, and this was his first home- 
coming. He stood, riveted, as it were, to the 

6 81 



Number Fourteen. 

spot, unable either to speak or move. His 
mind wandered feebly back to the halcyon days 
of childhood. The merry laughter of the now 
grief -stricken woman before him seemed to re- 
echo over the awful lapse of years, carrying 
with it something of the smell of wild flowers, 
the tangle of bushes and woodland paths, as 
hand in hand they trudged to and from the 
country school. Like the varied scenes of a 
panorama, the man's dreams continued to 
spread themselves in vivid coloring upon the 
faded canvas of his memory. Now he was an 
errand boy, in the great Metropolis which had 
borne witness to the tragedy of his life. 
Through long years each faithfully performed 
duty, tinged with the rainbow hue of hope, 
seemed bringing him nearer the goal he sought; 
and the boy, entering young manhood, graced 
the fair castle of his dreams with her whom 
from earliest childhood he called his (< wee 
wifie.^ Still, the gaunt, gray -haired man stood 
lost in retrospection. Now the bright errand 
boy had become the trusted private secretary 
of Lloyd Hutchings, his wealthy employer. 
Through this maze of bygone years in which 

82 



Number Fourteen. 

the man was lost, the grief-stricken woman 
before him was ever the central figure. But her 
voice had the joyousness of the birds to which 
they listened in childhood. Again, she was his 
bride, and he lived over the four brief years of 
their wedded bliss; the happiest years either 
had ever known, for both had been orphaned 
at an early age, and knew no love, save that 
of each other. There is a blissful economy in 
nature, whereby a man isolated from his fel- 
lows lives almost entirely in the past; blissful, 
albeit the past is dark, for it is the only pres- 
ervation from inevitable madness. So this 
gray-haired man, who had lived apart from 
his fellows for ten years, stood groping with 
the past, while the real tragedy of life was 
transpiring before him. Again he was seated 
at his employer's desk; he could see the 
blot upon his book, caused by the sudden 
placing of a man's hand upon his arm. 
A soft, treacherous hand; better far had it 
stabbed him to the heart, than have lingered 
upon his arm so caressingly. Again he hears 
the voice of his employer's son, as placing a 
forged check in his hands (bearing his father's 

83 



Number Fourteen. 

signature), he bids him cash it, as the hour 
is late, and other immediate duties call for his 
attention. 

Credulous victim, how promptly he obeyed. 
Again he lived over the week intervening be- 
tween the discovery of the forgery; and now 
he was confronting young Hutchings, only to 
find an emphatic denial of his participation in 
the affair. Again — with a dignity borne of in- 
nocence, he plead with his employer to believe 
him; but in vain. His brain swam, as he 
seemed to see a crowded court-room, and lis- 
tened to the evidence which was but too true, 
that he, Harold Hastings, had forged the check. 
Then came the verdict with its ten years' im- 
prisonment. Life had stopped for him, with 
the utterance of those few words. The business 
world shook its head en masse, and showered 
unbounded sympathy upon the martyr head of 
the opulent employer; but what heed gave it 
to him, whose individuality had suddenly been 
merged into that of the machine which justice 
recognizes only by a number, and who was soon 
to be forgotten by all save the <( wee wifie, B 
who tearfully hugged her baby to her frail 

84 



Number Fourteen. 

bosom, and bravely took up the burden of life 
alone. Only once, during all those years, were 
one of her letters given him, and he knew from 
its tenor that she had written often. It was a 
brave, strong letter, — one calculated to inspire 
hope, — with never a word of hardships borne, or 
labor performed by the frail little hands. Only 
a great outpouring of love, and a looking for- 
ward to his return when they should begin life 
over again; with here and there a description 
of little Harold growing ever more like her 
absent dear one. What pen can portray the 
awful change wrought in man by solitary con- 
finement! So accustomed had this wretched 
man become to the once hated appellation of 
<( Number Fourteen, w that when upon his dis- 
missal the warden repeated his name, its unac- 
customed sound startled him. It was some days 
after his dismissal until he was enabled to find 
the miserable abode which gave shelter to his 
family; and now he stood in their presence, 
trembling, awed, unable either to speak or 
move, gazing upon this last sad scene in the 
drama of his life, as like a panorama its past 
had flitted swiftly before him. He passed his 

85 



Number Fourteen. 

hands across his eyes, as one in a dream. Could 
this emaciated, sad-faced woman, who hung in 
such anguish over the dying boy, be his beauti- 
ful girlish <( wee wifie }) of ten years ago ? He 
made an effort to move towards her. A long, 
quivering sigh escaped the lips of the boy, and 
without a struggle, he closed his blue eyes, 
never to open them again. <( So He giveth His 
beloved sleep, }> whispered the mother. (< Good- 
bye, little Harold; you have left mother to wait 
alone. w 

The trembling gray-haired man was beside 
them now, and his voice was broken by sobs, 
as he exclaimed: (< No — wee wifie — the watch- 
ing is over now. 8 It was indeed, for the faith- 
ful spirit of the ex-convict's (< wee wifie B had 
followed that of their child, and it was the 
marble face of the dead upon which he rained 
his impassioned kisses. All night long he 
watched beside his dead, clasping them in his 
arms, kissing their mute lips, and whispering in 
their silent ears something of the boundless 
love with which his poor broken heart was 
overflowing; but when the morning light strug- 
gled in through the narrow casement, he drew 

86 



Number Fourteen. 

down the ragged blind, and crept softly out 
into the broad sunlight and away from the 
putrid air of the crowded alley, where lay all 
that was dear to him on earth. It was Sabbath 
morning, and groups .of gayly-dressed people 
were seeking their various places of worship. 
On through the crowded thoroughfare, the soli- 
tary ex-convict wended his way, pausing only 
at the door of one of the prominent churches. 
How often, with his wee wine, he had entered 
those sacred portals — the last time carrying 
baby Harold thither to be christened. (< Ah, 
God ! }) he moaned, and stifled back the sobs 
which refused to be controled. Too broken 
hearted was he to note the cold stares the 
fashionable congregation bestowed upon him, 
as he crept up the aisle, to the pew he had 
occupied ten years before. He did not even 
realize that an usher had hastily led him back; 
giving to the forward, uncouth stranger a seat 
nearest the door. (< Bear ye one another's bur- 
dens. }) These were the words of the text. 
Beautiful words they were, but words which 
the great busy world, and most of all, a 
fashionable congregation, have little time to 

87 



Number Fourteen. 

consider. The stranger, in the coarse ill-fitting 
garb, who wept softly during the eloquent ser- 
mon of the popular divine, seemed strangely out 
of place. 

« Blessed be the tie that binds 
Our hearts in Christian love." 

How sweetly the words floated upon the air, 
borne in waves of song by the cultivated voices 
of Dr. E's. aristocratic congregation. 

* We share our mutual woes, 
Our mutual burdens bear, 
And often for each other flows 
The sympathizing tear." 

As the beautiful soulful words welled forth 
from the lips of the great congregation, they 
carried a ray of comfort to the poor bleeding 
heart of the ex-convict, and inspired him with 
fresh courage to solicit the favor which had 
prompted his coming. The moment was at 
hand. The benediction had been pronounced, 
and as the congregation thronged the aisle the 
ex-convict shrinkingly pressed forward to the elo- 
quent divine whose gracious words had strangely 
soothed his aching heart. Hastily and very pa- 
thetically he related his sad story, and concluded 



Number Fourteen. 

by exclaiming: <( I ask you, dear sir, for the sake 
of her who was once a member of your church, 
and for the sake of the dead boy, upon whose 
baby head you lay your hands in the sacred 
rite of baptism; for their dear sakes, I implore 
you, give them a Christian burial, and save 
them from a pauper's grave. B The soft voice 
of the eloquent divine was full of patronization 
as he replied: <( Really, my poor man, this is 
very sad; but my time is too thoroughly en- 
grossed with my immediate congregation to bur- 
den myself with outride affairs. We are taught 
in God's Word that the way of the transgressor 
is hard, and I trust past transgressions may save 
you from future sin." Fiercely the ex-convict 

turned from the Rev. Dr. , and into his 

face there crept a look which it is well comes 
not often to the face of man. An hour later, 
as the eloquent divine was 'seated at his bounte- 
ous board discussing with his cultured family a 
sermon he had in view, which he trusted would 
be fruitful in securing large donations toward 
certain foreign missions in which he was inter- 
ested, another scene was being enacted in a re- 
mote part of the city. A motley crew, such as 



Number Fourteen. 

the crowded tenement house of a great city 
alone can reveal, were thronging garret and 
stairway, called thither by the sharp report of 
a pistol. Upon a cot, side by side, lay a mother 
and child, their dead faces wearing a strange 
look of serenity. Upon the floor beside them, 
face downward, lay a man with a pistol shot 
through his brain. A stalwart Irishman pushed 
through the crowd, and lifting the body from 
the floor, placed it upon the cot beside the 
others. Suddenly he started back, and roughly 
brushing the tears from his eyes, exclaimed: — 
(< My God!" It is number fourteen? 



90 



CATHERINE 

A Tale from Real Life. 

« « « 

CHAPTER I. 

Surely whoever speaks to me in the right voice, him or her I 

shall follow, 
As the water follows the moon, silently with fluid steps, anywhere 

around the globe. — Walt Whitman. 

fOFTLY, through a canopy of glossy leaves and 
creamy magnolia blossoms, crept the fair 
June sunshine, flecking with gold the rough 
brown locks of a girl, who with bowed head, 
softly wept. Catherine Scharger was the daugh- 
ter of the most miserly, domineering man in 
the State of Alabama, — a German, who, settling 
in the pretty, picturesque town of Selma, had 
married one of its daughters because of her 
thrift and industry. But the soft-voiced South- 
ern girl, although inured to the hardships of 
poverty, had blossomed in that atmosphere of 
kindly sympathy which to the Southerner is the 



Catherine. 

heritage alike of rich and poor; and after one 
brief year of cruelty and unkindness, the poor 
toil-worn hands were folded forever from their 
labor, and the weary eyes closed, never to open 
again. Hence, Catherine had never known a 
mother's love. Before six months her father 
married again; married a girl as phlegmatic 
and unsympathetic as himself, and Catherine 
(Heaven pity her!) had grown to womanhood 
with never the remembrance of a kiss, a caress, 
or a kindly word. With her father's stalwart 
form and blue eyes, she had inherited her 
mother's tender heart; and this fair June morn- 
ing, when all nature seemed to unite in one 
grand symphony of praise, the poor heartsick 
girl had crept to this secluded spot that she 
might weep unobserved. 

(< Hello, Catherine! is you a-cryin'? }) 
The speaker, Tom Headly, was a short, 
thick-set fellow, with a coarse face, sensual 
mouth, and a cast in one eye. Although he 
had resided in Selma for six months, no one 
knew from whence he came. 

Catherine, vexed to find her solitude broken, 
ventured no reply. 

9 2 



Catherine. 

(< I is got somep'n to tell ye, Catherine, ye 
hear ? )} he continued. 

Catherine lifted her tear-stained face and 
looked at him sullenly. 

(< I is going way to-night, an' I'd like to take 
you with me. I is goin' so far nobody'll ever 
hear tell of we all. Is you willin' to go, Cath- 
erine ? w 

Still the girl gazed at him sullenly, without 
reply. 

C( We all 'u'd live together, Catherine, an' you 
could keep house. I'd be powerful good to you, 
girl, an' you might have everything your own 
way. Is you willin' to go' long ? B 

He laid his heavy hand caressingly upon the 
rough brown head. Ah ! never was there ma- 
gician's wand that could vie with the touch of 
human sympathy; and in all the twenty-four 
years of her life, this was the girl's first caress. 

She lifted her coarse, labor-stained hand, and 
placing it within Tom's, replied : — 

<( Reckon I is willin' to go with you, Tom." 

Tom leaned forward, and kissed her upon the 
lips. It was her first kiss, and it was the open- 
ing of a new life. 

93 



Catherine. 

Ah ! the rapture of love, to this tender, pas- 
sionate, starved heart. The honest blue eyes, 
still moist with tears, shone like violets gemmed 
with dew, and rich waves of color came and 
went across the sun-browned face. How fair 
life seemed now ! How gratefully came the faint 
sweet odor of the jasmine, mingled with the 
fresher smell of tree and shrub. A mocking 
bird soaring aloft sent its rich flood of melody 
athwart the clear azure of the Southern sky. 
Tiny shafts of sunshine pierced the fragrant 
canopy above her head, and sent a shower of 
shadows gleaming at her feet. Catherine felt 
all this just as the crowd is thrilled by the 
beauty of a great painting, without comprehen- 
sion of its artistic conception. 

Suddenly a hateful, familiar sound cleft the 
clear summer air : — 

<( Cot — o — ree — na ! B 

It was the voice of her stepmother, and with 
the agility of a startled fawn the girl bounded 
to her feet and was gone. 



94 



Catherine. 



CHAPTER II. 

One day still fierce, 'mid many a day 

struck calm. — Browning. 

In a village in southern Ohio stands a log 
cabin, just as it stood over fifty years ago, when 
built by Tom Headly; and to the able-bodied, 
loving-hearted Catherine, whom he installed as 
its mistress, what a paradise it seemed. How 
light hearted the once melancholy and morose 
girl became; for who under the sweet influence 
of love could be otherwise, be it my lady in 
her palace, or her servant in the kitchen ? It 
was one stormy night in the month of Novem- 
ber following her elopement that the poor girl's 
happiness (too brief to have dispelled any of 
its illusions) was brought suddenly to a close. 
Were this tale an imaginary one, the happiness 
of its heroine should have been prolonged; but 
alas! it is only a chapter from the book of life, 
and where in fiction can be found sorrows so 
deep, tragedies so thrilling, or love so true and 
tender, as in real life ? In a low chair Tom's 
hands had fashioned for her particular use, 

95 



Catherine. 

Catherine sat in the ruddy glow of an open 
firelight, dreaming, just as myriads of women 
have, and will ever continue to do. Dreaming 
of the God-given mystery reserved for woman 
alone to solve, the beautiful, sacred mystery of 
motherhood which crowns the lowliest of her 
sex a queen, as royally as did the immaculate 
conception of the Mother of God, crown her 
queen among women. Dream, did our poor 
Catherine, while her busy fingers deftly shaped 
wonderful little garments; dream, and smile, in 
her homely, humble way, glancing now and 
then proudly at Tom, whose shock of red hair 
was bent over his work, for Tom was a good 
carpenter, and this new neighborhood was not 
slow in recognizing his handiwork. Suddenly 
the cabin door swung noiselessly open and a 
tall man, wearing a long white beard, softly en- 
tered, and approaching the busy carpenter, gazed 
down upon him without speaking. Tom glanced 
up with a gesture of displeasure, gruffly ex- 
claiming : — 

<( Wal! what does you want, Stranger?* 
C( What do I want ? w returned the man. There 
was something in the voice which caused Tom 

96 



Catherine. 

to start violently to his feet and turn deadly- 
pale. 

<( So you know me, do you ? B laughed the 
man; and dashing aside the disguising beard, 
with a quick movement he covered Headly with 
a pistol, at the same time exclaiming: — 

(( I'll tell you what I want, Tom Headly. I 
want to avenge my brother's murder; I want 
your life. 

Before the wretched man had time to plead 
for mercy, he fell at the feet of his avenger, a 
bleeding corpse. 

Six months later Tom Headly's son was born. 
The shock the mother received had left its im- 
press upon the plastic brain of the child; the 
boy was simple-minded. 



97 



Catherine. 



CHAPTER III. 

A solemn thing it is to me, 

To look upon a babe that sleeps — 

Wearing in its spirit deep 
The undeveloped mystery 

Of its Adam's taint and woe, 

Which when they developed be, 

Will not let it slumber so. 

— Mrs. Browning. 

Previous to the birth of her child, Catherine 
remained in a sort of dumb stupor, and it was 
not until her baby was placed within her arms, 
that she became aroused to consciousness; and 
then it was that the poor, starved heart poured 
out its idolatrous flood of mother love, upon 
(( Tom's baby," as she was wont to call it. 
Nature is a kind parent, and Catherine, in fail- 
ing to ever perfectly recover her perceptive 
faculties, was thus spared the pain of realizing 
that her child's mind was blighted. To her, 
(< Tom's baby B was all that is bright and beau- 
tiful, and in it she <( lived, and moved, and 
had her being. w Its tiny arms about her neck, 
the touch of its rosy fingers upon her face, and 
the cooing of its baby voice, were manna to 



Catherine. 

her weary soul. The poor creature was deft at 
needle work, and tirelessly and unceasingly she 
labored to support (( Tom's baby," and when 
this self-same baby grew to a strong-limbed 
lad who developed a taste for tools, and bent 
over his work with his father's self-same shock 
of red curling hair, Catherine's delight knew 
no bounds. For years her simple homely hap- 
piness was without alloy, but alas — <( the trail 
of the serpent is over all,* and the poor life so 
replete with suffering was never more to know 
surcease from its sorrow. Young Tom Headly 
began frequenting the village alehouses, and 
ere long, every farthing of his earnings were 
deposited therein. It is useless to follow poor 
Catherine through long years of watching and 
waiting for the coming of unsteady footsteps, 
the sound of which had once been such music 
to her ears. Suffice it to say, that her love 
never faltered, and when old age whitened her 
head and stiffened her limbs, she still labored 
to support the son, whose pleasure it should 
have been to smooth the roughened pathway 
of her declining years. Eight miles from 
the village where Catherine resided with her 

99 



Catherine. 

inebriate son, stood a number of farms, and 
adjoining one of these a cabin occupied by a 
family named Taylor, who were distantly re- 
lated to Tom's father. To this family, <( Silly 
Tom B (as he was commonly called) paid his 
respects several times a year, always proceeding 
from thence to Lawrence, there to haunt its 
more pretentious saloons. It was in one of 
these that Tom was arrested upon suspicion of 
having cruelly murdered the entire Taylor fam- 
ily, with the exception of a babe, the pitiful 
cries of which, as it wandered about in a nude 
condition, attracted the attention of a distant 
laborer, who carrying it into the cabin was 
greeted by the ghastly spectacle of the mur- 
dered family. Suspicion immediately attached 
itself to Headly, whom the neighbors said in- 
variably proceeded to Lawrence after a visit to 
the Taylors. Upon the day subsequent to the 
arrest, spots of blood were found upon his shirt 
and wristbands. He accounted for them by 
stating that he had butchered hogs the day 
previous, and to the end stoutly declared his 
innocence, insisting that he had not visited the 
Taylors for months. Intense excitement pre- 



Catherine. 

vailed, and the cry for Headly's blood was such 
that a riot was feared. The day following the 
arrest there might have been seen an aged 
woman creeping along the dusty highway, upon 
her white head the July sun blazed merci- 
lessly. During her long eight miles' journey to 
Lawrence she stopped each passerby and gazing 
wildly and beseechingly into the faces of all 
she met, exclaimed : <( My Tom never did that 
awful deed." Her coarse shoes were white with 
dust, her brown and wrinkled face beaded with 
perspiration, when she reached Lawrence and 
wended her way to the home of Judge B — , 
one of the most prominent attorneys. She car- 
ried a bucket of berries, which she tendered 
the lawyer with the simplicity of a child, ex- 
claiming : — 

(< I gathered them for you; I am Tom's mother. 
He never did that awful deed, he was too ten- 
der hearted to ever kill a bird. I have no 
money, but, oh God! I must save Tom. You 
will save my poor boy for me, won't you ? B 

There was something touching beyond ex- 
pression in the dumb, tearless agony of the 
wretched, half-crazed old woman who plead for 



Catherine. 

her son — that son, who to her was still (< Tom's 
baby," the same wee darling she had nestled 
to her bosom and tended so lovingly. Her. ap- 
peal was effective; Judge B — being a man of 
deep feeling and tender heart, responded to the 
request by a promise of assistance. Several 
times a week during the interval previous to 
the trial, the aged woman plodded wearily to 
Lawrence and presenting herself to Judge B — 
besieged him with childish and tiresome queries, 
never forgetting her thank-offering in fruit or 
vegetables. The tall gaunt figure of the old 
woman, who wildly asserted to every passerby 
that "Tom never did that awful deed," became 
to the citizens of Lawrence a familiar spectacle. 
The multitude laughed at her as crazy, while a 
few, realizing that the burden of her cry was 
but a wail which found its echo in the hope- 
lessness of her own broken heart, pitied her. 



Catherine. 

Be slow to judge, for mercy given then 
Will merit you the same from other men. 

— L. M. Norwood. 

CHAPTER IV. 

It was a sultry August morning; and, as if 
to add to its discomfort, a slight drizzly rain 
was falling, which intensified the heat. This 
was the closing day of the great murder trial, 
which for the past week had kept Lawrence 
and indeed half the country in an uproar of 
excitement. 

Shortly after sunrise, a motley crowd began 
assembling about the courthouse, gathering in 
force as the hour set for the trial approached. 
Moving slowly toward them, her coarse shoes 
heavy with mud, her faded frock damp and be- 
draggled, came the aged mother. She seemed 
feeble and exhausted, and pausing midst the 
crowd, gazed wildly into the cold, unsympathetic 
faces about her, exclaiming : (< My poor Tom 
never did that awful deed; my tender-hearted 
boy, who never even killed a bird.* 

A chorus of brutal laughter greeted the ap- 
peal, and a coarse creature cried out: "Give us 
103 



Catherine. 

a rest, old woman." A second chorus of brutal 
laughter greeted this sally, and the old woman 
(notwithstanding the sultriness of the morning) 
shivered as if from cold. 

The courtroom was crowded to overflowing; 
not a loophole of escape seemed left the un- 
fortunate defendant. There were blood-spots 
upon his clothing; the footprints in the soft 
clay about the door of the murdered family 
corresponded to a nicety with the size of his 
shoes; and yet his attorney retained implicit 
belief in his innocence, and as he arose to 
deliver his parting address to the jury (upon 
whose decision hung the life of the prisoner), 
his voice thrilled with enthusiasm, and his coun- 
tenance seemed to emit something of the convic- 
tions which he so deeply felt. Four long hours 
he spoke, and never had a speech of such burning 
eloquence been delivered in the courtroom of 
Lawrence. He was pleading for a life, that 
his honest convictions told him was about to be 
sacrificed instead of one upon whom the awful 
crime of murder really rested. He spoke of 
the cornfield surrounding that portion of the 
cabin in which the murdered bodies lay, and of 
104 



Catherine. 

a man who had been employed in plowing it 
the entire day of the early evening upon which 
the murder had been discovered. Proved, too, 
that he had plowed up to the very window of 
the room in which the bodies lay and which 
he must necessarily have seen. He spoke also 
of the peculiarity of this plowman's failing to 
hear the piteous cries of the Taylor babe, which 
were such as to attract the attention of a dis- 
tant laborer; and of his sudden and mysterious 
disappearance upon the discovery of the bodies. 

Judge B — succeeded in creating well-founded 
doubt as to the guilt of his client, both in the 
minds of the jury and the furious outside ele- 
ment. Through the honest convictions and 
earnest enthusiasm of his attorney, Tom Headly 
was saved from the gallows; but circumstantial 
evidence and popular prejudice were such as to 
render imprisonment for life inevitable. 

Who, through the cold medium of pen and 
ink, would presume to portray the anguish of 
the poor old mother's farewell ? What, though 
to the world the hands of this half-witted in- 
ebriate were steeped in the blood of his fellow- 
men, was he not to the mother the same babe 
105 



Catherine. 

she had lulled to sleep upon her bosom ? The 
little Tom, whose childish ways had once 
gladdened her lonely life ? Ah ! the height, the 
depth, the breadth of a mother's love! Who can 
fathom it ? 

CHAPTER V. 

For the early dead we may bow the head, 

And strike the breast and weep ; 
But oh, what shall be said 
* For the living sorrow ? 

Early one morning in the latter part of Au- 
gust, there might have been seen slowly wend- 
ing its way up the main street of a little inland 
village in Indiana, an ox-cart laden with sundry 
small household effects, and driven by an aged 
woman. Any innovation in the way of (C a new 
comer B to this village was a sensation worthy 
of much observation and comment; and this 
particular morning, from the residences of my 
ladies, the lawyer's and doctor's wives, down to 
those of (< the butcher, the baker, the candlestick 
maker,* various heads might have been seen 
thrust from their several windows, all bent upon 
observation. 

106 



Catherine. t 

In this particular village there stood an old 
cabin in which once upon a time there lived 
a man who murdered his wife and afterwards 
took his own life, and this cabin the entire 
community pronounced (< hanted, 8 and there- 
fore a place to be shunned by all self-respecting 
individuals. Why, scarcely a week after the 
murder, the owner of the cabin having spent a 
day repairing it, sickened and died mysteriously 
that self -same night; and barely a fortnight 
afterward his son fell from the cabin roof and 
broke his arm. It was enough, then, to arouse 
suspicion in the virtuous breasts of the horrified 
villagers, when this new-comer, scorning the 
advice of the entire community, ensconced her- 
self therein. For a month after her arrival this 
(< brazen-faced old woman w (as the villagers one 
and all termed her) was discussed with great 
gusto at all the missionary meetings; although 
none of the good sisters could surmise why the 
wretched old creature had brought an ancient 
crib and a bundle of baby clothes with her. 

(< Sich a forebodin' lookin' old creetor, too,* 
the barber's wife had remarked to the butcher's, 
as they chatted over a comfortable cup of tea; 
107 



Catherine. 

and the comment was not unwarranted. Her 
form was bent, her gray hair hung in a wild 
disheveled mass about her seamed and haggard 
countenance, and her wide blue eyes had a 
half-crazed look in them. (( Hear how she mut- 
ters to herself,* said the preacher's wife to her 
next-door neighbor, as the old woman passed by. 
<( Who knows, M returned the other, "but that the 
devil has taught her to charm evil sperits. w 

Had it been a century earlier, this harmless 
old woman would surely have been burned for 
a witch. She had an odd way, too, of disap- 
pearing now and then, for a week at a time, 
when suddenly the ox-cart would lumber into 
the village, and its aged occupant, more wretched 
and forlorn looking than ever, would hobble out 
at the door of the (< hanted house/* not to dis- 
appear again for mayhap a six month or more. 

All this was extremely puzzling to the vil- 
lagers, toward whom the old woman maintained 
the strictest secrecy as to her goings and com- 
ings, and had even refused to gratify their 
curiosity regarding her past history. However, 
notwithstanding the fact that no villager ever 
crossed her threshold, and that even the chil- 
108 



Catherine. 

dren upon the streets taunted and tormented 
her, her wonderful knitting and sewing (and at 
half price, too) were not to be despised by the 
village merchants. She was known, too, at odd 
times, to take a turn in the harvest fields, and 
was reported by those employing her, to have 
given <( a'most as much satisfaction as one of the 
reg'lar hands. >} What the old woman did with 
her earnings was beyond all mortal ken, for she 
stinted herself in the most parsimonious fashion. 

Affairs went on at this rate for almost five 
years, when the village pastor (a man not un- 
like his people) accepted a new charge. His 
successor, an aged man of Southern birth (be- 
ing in poor health), accepted the first vacant 
pastorate offering a change of climate. The 
heart of this big-souled Southerner was so full 
of love for God and man, that he seemed lit- 
erally enveloped in a perpetual flood of sun- 
shine; and who ever heard of sunshine that did 
not penetrate the darkest nook and cranny, and 
smile as beneficently upon the beggar in the 
gutter as upon my lord in his carriage ? 

The Rev. James Proctor Arnold was not slow 
in discovering the poor old woman, who for five 
109 



Catherine. 

years had been the butt of the entire village. 
A glance at the pitiful face, with its great sor- 
rowful eyes, which had in them the distressed 
look of some poor hunted animal, appealed to 
the good man's sympathy, and spoke more elo- 
quently than words could have done, of the 
silent grief of a broken heart. His were the 
first feet that ever crossed her humble threshold, 
and slowly, and by degrees, his kindness won 
her confidence, and the poor old woman, so 
long estranged from all human sympathy, con- 
fided to him the pitiful tale of her life; a tale 
more sad by far than fiction's pen could ever 
paint. Sobbing bitterly, she pointed to a little 
time-worn crib (the same Tom Headly had 
fashioned for his unborn babe so long ago). 

<( 'Tis all that's left me now, w she moaned. 
Poor empty crib, and emptier hands. (< I could 
not stay where they believed my poor good 
Tom done that awful deed, w she sobbed, <( and 
so I come here; here where no one knows him, 
or speaks his name. I work hard — oh, so hard, 
that I may see him at times, and take him some 
little gifts; but oh, he hardly knows me. He 
looks so wild, and shakes his head — his poor 



Catherine. 

shaved head — the same I used to nestle in my 
bosom, and hush to sleep in yonder little crib. 
Oh, God! how hard — how hard it is to bear, 8 
and the poor heart-broken creature rocked her- 
self to and fro in anguish which none but a 
mother, robbed by a more cruel hand than 
death, can ever feel. 

CHAPTER VI. 

Who knows what earth needs, from earth's lowest creature, 
No life can be pure in its purpose and strong in its strife, 
And all life not be purer and stronger thereby. 

— Meredith. 

Another August day had come, just such a 
sultry, rainy day as the memorable one five 
years before, when Tom Headly had been con- 
victed of murder. And now, in the rude cabin 
she called her home, the patient hands of his 
poor old mother, the hands which had never be- 
fore faltered in their ministry of labor and love, 
lay idle for the first time. The fever, which for 
ten days had racked the wasted form and filled 
the weary brain with weird fancies, was gone 
now, and over the wan old face there slowly 
crept the gray shadow of death. Beside her 



Catherine. 

sat the village pastor, and tenderly as might a 
woman have done, he wiped the dews of death 
from her forehead. Beseechingly the dying eyes 
fastened themselves upon his face, while the 
wasted toil-worn hand pointed feebly toward a 
rude wooden box. <( The chest, she murmured 
faintly. Hastily the minister carried it to the 
bedside, and lifted the lid. Rolls of newly- 
made shirts and knitted socks were neatly folded 
therein, and beside them a little heap of money, 
the carefully saved earnings of the year. <( For 
— T-Tom, w she gasped, the words coming with 
an effort. tt Tom shall have them, my good 
woman, w answered the pastor comfortingly. <( I 
will take them to him myself, and explain that 
they were the last gifts of his mother. )} Deeper 
settled the gray shadow upon the pallid face, 
and more difficult grew the breathing. (< Come 
unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, 
and I will give you rest. Softly and distinctly 
the man of God repeated the beautiful promise, 
but the dying woman heard it not. The poor 
mind was wandering again, and in fancy she 
cradled to her breast the babe of her youth. 
<( The — cr-crib — I'll put you th-there — 1-little 



Catherine. 

— Tom, 8 she gasped. They were the last words 
she uttered; poor old Catherine was dead. The 
weary soul, which in life had known nothing 
but pain, had gone forth to that inheritance 
promised the faithful. (< So He giveth his be- 
loved sleep, B softly repeated the minister, as he 
reverently closed the eyes of the dead. 

"Honest work for the day, honest hope for the morrow, 
Are these worth nothing more than the hand they make weary, 
The heart they have saddened, the life they leave dreary? 
Hush! the seven-fold heavens to the voice of the Spirit 
IJcho : He that o'ercometh shall all things inherit. » 



113 



THE EXPERIENCE OF A CORPSE 

OR 

THE FIRST NIGHT UNDERGROUND 

« « « 

fHERE is not a city in America to which 
nature has been so prodigal of her gifts, 
as the beautiful (< forest city of the South, w 
Savannah, Ga. It was upon my first visit to 
Savannah that this story dates; and for the 
benefit of any disciple of Hamlin Garland who 
may scan its grewsome title, let me frankly 
state that it is not of the (< new realistic }) school, 
although its author (to coin a word from the 
new school) asserts its (< veritism." Early in 
April, 1894, I was seated upon the veranda of 
the De Soto, listening to the music in Madison 
Square, and chatting with my old friend and 
college chum, Walter Calhoun, whom I had not 
115 



The Experience of a Corpse. 

seen for five years. So sedulous had Calhoun 
been in praise of a beautiful South Carolinian 
(who, with her widowed mother, was to arrive 
upon the day following) that it was plain to be 
seen the shaft of the wily little god had been 
unerring in its aim. (< Well, old boy, w I ex- 
claimed, (( who would ever have thought to find 
you worshipping at the shrine of Eros. It is 
not worth while to dissemble ! for it is plain 
that Cupid has marked you his victim. }> Cal- 
houn lazily blew a wreath of smoke from 
beneath his tawny mustache, and tossing aside 
his cigar, replied : (( It is not worth my while to 
dissemble, when I have especially invited you 
here to help me decide upon a difficulty that 
has tormented my brain for two years. Why 
there never was a schoolboy more foolishly in 
love than your humble servant Dr. Walter Cal- 
houn, forty years of age, and a confirmed old 
bachelor. » « What is the trouble, Walt ? * I 
asked. (< Does your divinity fail to reciprocate 
the tender passion ? w (( Upon the contrary, B he re- 
plied, (( I believe that she fancies me. Indeed, 
a score of fellows have urged me to go in and 
win, or forego the chase and give others a chance. 



The Experience of a Corpse. 

You see," he continued, dropping his voice to a 
confidential tone, (< I fear the mother is a mono- 
maniac, and yet you would never suspect it 
unless you knew her intimately, and perhaps 
not then. At times I fear my confounded pro- 
fession has imbued me with a morbid terror of 
that accursed malady, and yet I can but believe 
the taint is there. * <( Perhaps much learning 
hath made thee mad, 8 I returned, (< and the 
fancied insanity is but a hallucination of thine 
own brain. >y (< I would to God it were so, 8 he 
replied with an energy that startled me. <( The 
mother, 8 he continued, (< is reputed to be worth 
several million dollars; and while never giving 
a farthing to relieve poverty or carry on the 
Gospel, she is said to bequeath hundreds, nay 
thousands of dollars, to endow crematories. 
(< Perhaps the old lady acts from a sanitary 
standpoint, >} I replied, <( and prefers assisting 
her fellows in a line already too long neglected; 
for as a physician, you are of course aware that 
this is a subject agitating the minds of a great 
many scientists; and indeed, in my own opinion, 
it is but the feeble mutterings of a revolution, 
117 



The Experience of a Corpse. 

which sooner or later must become the thunder 
of a demanding and fast increasing population. 8 
(< Madame Courtney has a most eloquent de- 
fender, B returned my friend, <( and I admit that 
your argument is not without reason; but I 
have only acquainted you with a portion of her 
peculiarities upon this subject. Believe me, I 
would be the happiest man in Savannah, could 
I convince myself that she is not mad; for the 
experiences of my profession have been such 
that I can never bring myself to marry one 
whose blood is tainted with the awful heritage 
of insanity; and yet, for two years, I have per- 
mitted myself to linger under the spell of the 
charms of this woman's daughter, hoping against 
hope that I may find myself mistaken. M <( Well, 
well, old fellow, cheer up, w I replied, (( for I 
doubt not but that the professional experiences 
of which you speak have rendered you morbid 
upon this subject, and that after all, things are 
not half so bad as you picture them. * <( At any 
rate," returned my friend arising, <( I will not 
burden you with any more of my troubles 
to-night, and to-morrow you shall have an 
118 



The Experience of a Corpse. 

opportunity of judging - for yourself, w and warmly 
wringing my hand, we bade each other good- 
night. 

I admit that it was with great curiosity that 
I looked forward to meeting Madame Courtney 
and her daughter Catherine, and it was not 
until the following evening that Calhoun pre- 
sented them to me. The mother, although 
rather petite, gave one the impression of being 
somewhat stately; for having been born and 
reared in Charleston, S. C, she had that digni- 
fied bearing, and queenly old-time grace, which 
seems the heritage of the Charlestonian. The 
daughter — Ah! how can I describe her? She 
was only a fair-faced, golden-haired girl. I had 
seen many faces by far more fair, but she had 
a magnetism, a certain naivete that set her 
apart; a strongly marked individuality that 
claimed your attention when fairer faces than 
hers were near. Perhaps the most striking fea- 
ture of her countenance was her eyes, now blue 
as the azure of a summer sky, again grey and 
flashing, and anon — a pale beryl, like a sudden 
glimpse of old ocean, when foam-tossed it 
dimples in the sunshine. These wonderful 
119 



The Experience of a Corpse. 

changeable eyes looked out from under a pair of 
straight dark brows. These formed a pretty con- 
trast to the mass of golden ringlets which curled 
about the broad low brow. Upon first behold- 
ing these two faces, I was curiously impressed 
with a sense of their familiarity, although quite 
positive I had never seen either of them before. 
It was as if two portraits with which I had 
been familiar from childhood had suddenly come 
to life, and stepped from their frames. I did 
not reveal my impression to Calhoun, but I felt 
sure it was shared by the fair Catherine, whom 
I frequently observed gazing at me in a per- 
plexed sort of way, as though fain to solve the 
mystery which puzzled my own brain. That 
night my dreams were troubled; I was vainly 
laboring to place Madame Courtney and pretty 
Catherine. A month later, having been thrown 
daily into the society of the two, I would have 
sworn that Calhoun's impression of Madame 
Courtney was an absurd delusion. Never by 
word or act, had she betrayed the slightest 
symptom of hallucination. On the contrary, she 
was all that a brilliant, cultured, fascinating 
woman can be; while I — heaven pity me — was 
120 



The Experience of a Corpse. 

so madly, so passionately in love with her 
daughter, that knowing every prolonged mo- 
ment of bliss spent at her side but added to the 
hopeless misery of a love my honor forbade me 
reveal, still lingered. In vain I pleaded with 
Calhoun to offer his love to Catherine, endeavor- 
ing to make him feel with me the ridiculousness 
of his opinion of Madame Courtney. 

Finally he came to me one morning and said : 
* I have arranged for a drive to-night, and if 
you will make one of the party I will prove 
the truth of my assertion regarding Madame 
Courtney's mania. I have but one request to 
make: assist me in so closely engrossing the 
ladies in conversation that they will fail to 
observe our entrance to Bonaventure ceme- 
tery; and once there, note its impression upon 
Madame Courtney. ® Always willing to please 
Calhoun, and anxious to draw affairs to a cli- 
max, I consented. It was a perfect evening 
for a drive, and as we whirled down the broad 
avenues, magnificent in their rich, flowery, 
tropical foliage, there was wafted on the balmy, 
languorous, flower-scented air the merry voices 
of children at play, mingled with the clatter of 

121 



The Experience of a Corpse. 

passing vehicles, and the peculiar cries of an 
occasional negro fruit or vegetable vender. The 
beautiful face opposite my own shone fairer 
than the silvery stars in the azure firmament, 
and not unlike those stars, meth ought, for- 
ever beyond my reach. My love for this girl, 
in its intensity and utter hopelessness, had be- 
come an agony well-nigh unbearable, and it 
was with difficulty that I assisted in engaging 
the ladies in conversation, while the carriage 
rolled noiselessly through the gates of the grand 
old cemetery. The last crimson rays of depart- 
ing day seemed suddenly to have merged into 
the purple shadows of twilight. We were shut 
in by a magnificent archway, a grand old Gothic 
cathedral not made by hands, the architecture 
of nature. Gigantic oaks which have withstood 
the storms of more than a century, reaching 
out their giant limbs, form this mighty arch- 
way; and gleaming like silver sheen among 
the dark green leaves, depends such heavy 
growth of old gray Spanish moss, as to give 
the spot a weird, almost supernatural, appear- 
ance. It is as if nature, in bedecking this hall- 
way of her dead, had placed thereon the seal 



The Experience of a Corpse. 

of solemnity. The sudden merging of day into 
twilight attracted the attention of the ladies, 
who glanced up in awe at the solemn beauty 
of the scene. Suddenly a tombstone gleamed 
white in the distance. A wild cry of terror 
rent the air. <( My God — I am in a cemetery, 8 
shrieked Madame Courtney, and fell fainting in 
her daughter's arms. (< How dare you thus dis- 
regard my mother's feelings, knowing her aver- 
sion to a cemetery, Dr. Calhoun, w asked the 
daughter sternly. Calhoun, muttering an apol- 
ogy, gave an order to the driver, who turning 
the horses about, drove rapidly to Thunderbolt 
Inn, where no time was lost in procuring re- 
storatives. How like a corpse the aged woman 
looked, as in the fading twilight she lay pil- 
lowed within the tender arms which refused to 
be released of their burden. Suddenly, with a 
deep shuddering groan the prostrate woman 
opened her eyes and sat up. Although shaking 
as if from an ague fit, she seemed possessed of 
a dormant energy. With flashing eyes she 
turned toward Calhoun, and haughtily ex- 
claimed : <( Through your utter disregard of my 
feelings, in thus exposing me to suffering you 
123 



The Experience of a Corpse. 

know to be inevitable, you have, sir, forever 
forfeited my friendship. w Calhoun feebly en- 
deavored to remonstrate, but she ignored him, 
and addressed herself to me. (( You have known 
me at least long enough, Mr. De Saussure, to 
know that I am neither erratic or superstitious, B 
she said, (< and after this painful scene, I feel 
that an explanation is due from me." "Spare 
yourself, my dear madame, at least until some fu- 
ture time when you are stronger, w I replied. (< No 
— I must speak now, when I feel most deeply, * 
she answered imperiously. It was a strange, 
never-to-be-forgotten scene. The fair girl, si- 
lent, and with a scared expression upon her 
lovely countenance; the mother, trembling, im- 
perious, and with the air of a tragedy queen; 
these two sat facing us. Calhoun, white and 
wretched, gazed beseechingly at the girl, while 
I waited with impatient curiosity the result of 
this evening so tragic in its beginning and 
necessarily so momentous in its results. 

tt As you know," began the old lady, <( I am 

a Buddhist; and our religion, so ancient, so 

beautiful, so long despised by the people of this 

nation, is at last finding favor with some of its 

124 



The Experience of a Corpse. 

deepest thinkers. You are doubtless aware of 
our belief in rebirth and constant transmigra- 
tion of soul until the blissful perfection of Nir- 
vana is attained. My experience, which I am 
about to relate, and which altered my entire 
future, B she continued, (< dates back some cen- 
turies ago, when I, the daughter of Christian 
parents, lived upon this earth, died, and was 
given the usual Christian burial. Perhaps a 
vainer, more self-worshipful creature than was 
I, never existed (for I was absolutely beauti- 
ful), and my retribution was such as the direst 
torture of a Christian hell has failed to portray. 

It WaS THE EXPERIENCE OF A CORPSE, OR THE 

first night underground. Oh, ye saints of 
Buddha! the experience of that first night un- 
derground! The spirit which had worshipped 
at no shrine save that of its own beautiful body, 
was compelled (for a short space after death) 
to retain its tenement of clay. Ah! ye gods, the 
very remembrance of that night is enough to 
drive one mad. Deep coffined in the cold sepul- 
chral ground, far from all the sweet familiar 
sights and sounds of nature ! Never to see the 
sun arise in his majestic splendor, never to 
125 



% 



The Experience of a Corpse. 

hear the birds sing, or to smell the freshness 
of the morning air! Never to watch the moon 
drift in her silver radiance among the clouds; 
or the stars sparkle like jewels in the vaulted 
heavens! To be compelled to lie in that loath- 
some bed and realize the face I worshipped un- 
dergo all the hideous changes so soon to rob it 
of its divine beauty! To watch the sinking of 
the features; the horror of decay with its deadly 
work of worms, and at the end, the hideous, 
grinning, socketless skull! But why torture you 
with the repetition of an experience the ghast- 
liness of which baffles human skill to portray ? 
One night to me was as a hundred years, and 
this experience of centuries ago lingers in my 
mind with more intensity than do the occur- 
rences of yesterday. 

When released from the hell of my imprison- 
ment, I sacredly vowed that my life should be 
more humble, and that I would spare no pains 
in establishing the only true mode of burial; 
and while faithful to my trust, spending my 
fortune freely to this end, I have ever been 
slow in repeating the experience which led 
thereto, knowing that the cold, incredulous world 
126 



^M 



The Experience of a Corpse. 

would but scoff at me. 8 Suddenly — as one 
awakening from a dream I reached forward, 
and seizing- the old lady's hands exclaimed: 
<( Dear Madame Courtney, something stirs my 
soul as in a dim, vague fancy. I seem to have 
heard this tale centuries ago in some other life. 
I am playing upon the beach with a little girl 
whose face is very like Catherine's, her name — 
is — Coy. B The old lady started violently. 
<( Nirvana of the saints made perfect, w she 
exclaimed, <( it is Catherine's middle name; it 
was the name of my father; go on! go on! w 
(< We reached the years of maturity," I con- 
tinued, (< and I loved Coy, as I never loved any- 
thing else on earth. We were to have been 
married, when something intervened which pre- 
vented it; but it is all as a dream to me. A 
dream from which I seem to have awakened 
before it was finished. 8 (( Pennoyer, * — it was 
Catherine who spoke, and she called me by 
my mother's name. Softer than the zephyrs, 
sweeter than the magnolia blooms which they 
kissed, was her voice, while her face shone 
with the tranfiguration of a passionate, idol- 
atrous love. (( Then you have not forgotten 
127 



The Experience of a Corpse. 

your Coy — you love me still. B There seemed 
nothing unmaidenly in the r'fl's advance; on 
the contrary, she was the embodiment of mod- 
esty, and simple naivete. (< Surely Pennoyer — B 
she went on, (< you remember our last even- 
ing together upon the beach ? How soon I 
should have become your wife, had not my 
jealous and cowardly cousin taken your life. 
Ah me ! how in my anguish I longed for 
death. w She was kneeling at my feet now, 
clasping both of my hands in her own little 
fair ones. How vividly from the dull rust of 
bygone years, came back the memory of my 
last evening with this girl whom I had wor- 
shipped so madly — who was to have been my 
wife — and yet whose very name I had for- 
gotten until the present moment. Was it all a 
dream ? No — my hands clasped firmly the 
little fingers placed so confidingly within them. 
I forgot the presence of others, and lived but 
in the past, as I clasped to my heart once 
more, the beautiful creature who knelt at my 
feet — covering her face, her lips, her brow, 
with passionate kisses. 

I was aroused from my happy forgetfulness 
128 



The Experience of a Corpse. 

by the shrill voice of Calhoun calling the driver 
to stop. I had forgotten his presence, and 
glanced at him now for the first time. His 
face was set and livid, like that of a corpse. 
<( Stop, driver, w he shrieked wildly, (( that I may 
rid myself of these cursed lunatics while I am 
still sane; w and dashing himself from the vehi- 
cle, he disappeared. The evening paper of the 
following day chronicled the sudden departure 
of Dr. Walter Calhoun for New York, from 
whence he would sail for Europe to remain in- 
definitely; and as the engagement of his friend 
to the beautiful South Carolinian was announced 
soon after, it was pretty generally believed by 
Madame Grundy and her host of followers that 
the engagement had much to do with the Doc- 
tor's sudden departure. There are few in this 
materialistic age who will give credence to this 
tale, as happy in its sequel as it is grewsome 
in title. It would be difficult to find a happier 
couple than myself and wife; while my mother- 
in-law (whose aid-de-camp I am in abetting all 
her efforts toward reform in burial) pronounces 
me (( the best fellow in the world. * Should 
you, my reader, chance in the near future to 
9 129 



The Experience of a Corpse. 

find yourself in the proud old city of Charleston, 
S. C, and while strolling along its battery be- 
hold the erection of a palatial mansion, you 
will please to remember it is the future resi- 
dence of Mr. and Mrs. George Pennoyer De 
Saussure, and their loved mother, whose gift it 
is to her children. For the benefit of the in- 
credulous, I will add that Dr. P. — , one of Sa- 
vannah's most prominent physicians, and brave 
soldiers who wore the gray, will bear me out 
as to the idiosyncrasies of Madame Courtney, 
whom he has often heard relate her (< experi- 
ence of a corpse, or the first night under- 
ground. w 



130 



LOVE'S FIRST CONQUEST 

LEGGENDARIO 
« « « 

wn the prehistoric ages, before the world was 
g§s peopled, and Eros, child of Heaven and 
Earth dwelt here alone, Spring and Autumn 
had never had a birth. In the southern land 
of sunshine and blue skies perpetual Summer 
reigned, while in the far-off north grim Winter 
forever held his sway. 

In a spot on the banks of the Nile, where in 
the early morn lotus blossoms opened their blue 
eyes to greet the sun, which in majestic splen- 
dor blazed in the heavens like a globe of fire; 
and where the feathery palm-tree, airy acacia, 
and fragrant mimosa grow in all their luxuri- 
ousness, entwined in vines which trail in wild 
profusion, until their varied and gorgeous blos- 
soms float in brilliant colors upon the crimson 
131 






Love's First Conquest. 

tinted waters of the Nile, in this spot of bright- 
ness, warmth, and tropical luxury, dwelt young 
Eros, child of Love. 

This had been the trysting place of Heaven 
and Earth, and the birthplace of their child. 
He reveled in the beauty about him, for while 
from one parent he inherited purity and sesthet- 
icism, from the other he partook of the deepest 
capability for sensuous enjoyment; and these 
elements, seemingly at variance, were the neces- 
sary constituents to a perfect nature. 

Hither and thither wandered the lad at his 
own sweet will. Gorgeous-hued birds flocked to 
his call, and ferocious beasts of the desert 
fawned at his feet with the docility of the lamb, 
for the mysticism of Heaven was his. 

At times the young god tired of the sights 
and sounds, the beasts and birds about him, and 
longed for conquest and more extended fields; 
for within his soul slept the embryo germ, 
which in future years was to make him con- 
queror of the world. 

Could he have realized the extended realm, 
that in after years evolution should assign him; 
could he have beheld the entire earth peopled, 
132 



Love's First Conquest. 

and himself crowned conqueror of them all, 
more patiently would his soul have possessed 
itself; but though immortal, he knew nothing 
of his destiny, and his heart panted with the 
inborn desire of a conqueror. 

One afternoon, when the African sun burned 
fiercely in the Heavens, and not a breeze stirred 
the palm-trees above his head, young Eros in- 
dulged in fanciful dreams of the far-off land of 
ice and snow. 

(< Naught could be more beautiful, w he mur- 
mured, <( than this sensuous spot of warmth and 
fragrance which gave me birth, and yet my 
soul pineth for a glimpse of the far-off moun- 
tains of the north, for a breath from its cool 
pine forests; yet — how dare I venture to that 
spot where perpetual Winter reigns. M Long he 
pondered in silence, when suddenly, with a glad 
cry he sprang to his feet. The fertility of his 
imagination had given birth to a sudden in- 
spiration, which filled his soul with wild joy. 
He laughed aloud, as hastily he entwined his 
bow and arrow in a brilliant mass of flowers. 
Great wreaths of the same festooned his body, 
and adorned his neck and brow. As he moved 
133 



Love's First Conquest. 

swiftly forward, the sun gleaming blood-bright 
among the floating gold of his tresses, and 
glancing among the scarlet and purple of the 
brilliant flowers which adorned him, he made a 
fitting picture for the rich coloring and gorgeous 
tropical beauty about him. Swift as the wind 
moved the god, his fair body and burnished 
tresses absorbing, as he went, the fierce intens- 
ity of the African sun. 

(< Burn fierce, and fiercer still, w he cried. 
(< Thou sun which blazeth like a globe of fire 
in heaven's clear blue, send down thy fiery 
shafts until they pierce my soul, permeate my 
being, and make me thy very child; for to-day 
go I forth upon my first mission. Without thee 
I fail, by thy aid I stand the proud conqueror 
of a mighty achievement; for I seek, O Sun! 
to melt the heart of the cold, unapproachable 
North, that mine own fair clime, and thine, may 
find favor in his sight. I seek by device, known 
alone to Love, and by the soft, sweet amorous 
wooing of our own fair land, to kiss to life the 
hidden passion of his frozen heart, until in fond 
desire he clasp the Southland close, and print 
upon her burning lips a nuptial kiss.- 
i34 



Love's First Conquest. 

Thus spoke Eros, child of Love. And the 
Sun replied: — 

(< Lo ! thou child of Heaven and Earth, be- 
hold, thou shalt reign forever, and all things 
above and beneath shall be subject to thee. 
Speed on, bear in thine arms and upon thy 
bosom the sensuous warmth and fragrance of 
our own fair land of sunshine and blue skies; 
and fear thou not, for in the land of eternal win- 
ter, where never a flower bloomed, they shall not 
depart from thee, for they are thine heritage. M 

Once more the young god laughed aloud, 
while onward, with the velocity of the wind, he 
sped, never wearying, until, lo! a dazzling thing 
of fragrance, warmth, and beauty, he paused 
upon the threshold of the land of eternal snow. 
Mightier than the coming of a host of armed 
kings were the silent footsteps of the god of 
love, as burning with the warmth of his tropical 
sunland, his rosy feet rested upon the snow-clad 
mountains of the far-away north. A tall pine 
tree shook its fringe of feathery snow upon his 
sunny head, and the fierce blast of winter whis- 
tled about his unprotected form, but this child 
of fire and flame heeded them not. 
135 



Love's First Conquest. 

<( I come, O North ! w he cried, <( in the name 
of the fair Sunland of perpetual summer. See, 
I have borne her to thee within mine arms, 
and upon my bosom. }) But the cold North 
opened not his frozen lips. 

(< See, O Northland ! is she not beautiful ? }> 
cried Eros, as for an instant the sunland 
gleamed athwart his vision. Shyly the flower- 
like face of Summer smiled into the cold face 
of Winter, as softly she approached him, shed- 
ding with every step a shower of sensuous fra- 
grance. Upon his regal head she placed a 
wreath of blossoms, and soft, her fair young 
fingers touched his brow, and warm, her fra- 
grant breath caressed his cheek. Strange thrills 
ran through his gigantic being; a warmth he 
ne'er had felt before penetrated his veins and 
caused the mighty heart to throb, which naught 
had ever agitated. The warm magnetic touch 
exhilarated him, the fair, luminous presence in- 
toxicated him, while to her the inflexible im- 
penetrability of his majestic bearing pleased and 
overawed her. Each stood, magnetized, gazing 
upon the other in speechless rapture. Only an 
instant did the flower-soft touch of Summer lin- 
136 



Love's First Conquest. 

ger upon the brow of Winter; only an instant 
did her fragrant breath float across his cheek. 
Fair Summer knew her power, coquettishly she 
turned away — when, lo! his hauteur vanished 
like the mist before the sun, and stretching forth 
his mighty arms, closely he circled her fair form, 
crying in voice as deep as distant thunder : — 

(< Come to me, O thou beauteous bride of the 
fair land of summer." And in that close em- 
brace the Earth reeled and trembled, and as 
their lips met in one long nuptial kiss the fields 
of snow melted from the earth like a river and 
were absorbed by the luminous presence of Sum- 
mer, whose fair hands strewed flowers in their 
stead. 

Two flower-tipped arrows had sped from the 
unerring hand of the designing Eros, accom- 
plishing their purpose; and peeping from be- 
hind a clump of pines, his sunny locks gemmed 
with their melting snow, he laughed aloud in 
joyfulness, and with the proud tread of a con- 
queror, sped back on swift wings to his sunny 
nook on the banks of the River Nile, there to 
laugh and dream of how, through him, fair 
Summer had conquered and slain proud Winter. 
137 



Love's First Conquest. 

Forgotten were the beasts and birds, which in 
bygone days had charmed his careless hours, 
and for one whole long year the little god sat 
still and smiled, and dreamed about the mys- 
teries of life and love. And then — once more 
he hied him to the spot where fair queen Sum- 
mer had conquered her lord. 

When, lo! there awaited him a mystery by 
far more great; for up into his face there smiled 
two lovely twins, the offspring of the mystic 
union of the seasons. Young Spring — so like 
her mother in all tender loveliness, and sturdy 
Autumn, softened type of his stern father. 

Hence, in the prehistoric ages, Love first es- 
tablished, through birth of those fair babes, that 
law which men still seek to understand, the phi- 
losophy of (< the survival of the fittest. M 



138 



A CONFEDERATE FOR A DAY 



^■pT is possible that the older residents of the 
ft historical (< Hill City,® Lynchburg, Va., will 
recognize in the hero of this little tale one of 
her prominent business men; and among the 
splendid galaxy who wore the gray and whose 
proud names and heroic deeds will descend in 
historic glory to unborn nations, none were 
more brave than Lynchburg's (( Confederate for 
a day. }) He was such a tiny tot, blue eyed and 
golden haired, but no heart throbbed with 
greater loyalty to the Southern cause than that 
of this little embryo soldier. Longings to join 
the splendid company which marched so proudly 
from the Hill City under General Jubal Early's 
command filled the breast of the little lad, but 
alas! — he was only ten years old, and such a 
little lad at that. Visions of how strategy might 
139 



A Confederate for a Day. 

prevail filled his small brain ; and when brothers 
followed father in the proudest, bravest army 
that ever graced the globe, his resentment of 
the barrier of youth knew no limit. By con- 
tinual imploring he had prevailed upon his 
brothers to make him a cannon large enough 
to carry a minie ball, and he became very dex- 
terous in the use of it. There is perhaps no 
life, consumed by any earnest desire, that the 
longing is not in some sense gratified, and the 
gala-day of this boy's life came to him when 
Jubal Early marshalled his forces and beat back 
Hunter's army in their attempt to take Lynch- 
burg. Little dreamed the fond mother, as she 
prayed at home while the distant din of battle 
sent terror to her heart, that in the rear of that 
army, marching with the boys in gray, triumph- 
ant of heart, and carrying his little cannon in 
hand, was her golden-haired baby. All day long 
was heard the ceaseless boom of cannon and the 
hail of shells was continuous — but the boy felt 
no alarm. Proudly he fired his cannon with the 
rest, and as the smoke poured forth, and the 
sound added to the tumult which led to Hunter's 
retreat, his heart beat high with hope that he 
140 



A Confederate for a Day. 

might at least have lessened the Yankee force by 
one. But the heart of childhood, after all, how 
full of love and forgiveness it is (as the sequel of 
this tale will prove), and how beautiful an ex- 
ample of the Master's words: (< Unless ye become 
as one of these. * The day drew to a close, and 
Hunter had retired, leaving victory to the boys 
in gray, and they, slowly, and worn with excite- 
ment, marched back to the city. The little sol- 
dier's brother, splendid in his uniform of gray, 
and proud in the glory of his sixteen years, was 
among the soldiers stationed that day at Mor- 
man's Fort; and when, upon reaching Halsey's 
farm that evening, he found little Edward await- 
ing him, his golden curls matted, his little face 
begrimed with powder, great was his surprise. 
(< I say, Jimmie,^ said the child, as the soldiers 
marched away, <( let us go back over the field 
and hunt things. w Jimmie was but a child, too; 
it was only since he had donned the gray that 
he <( put off childish things, w and he replied ; 
(( A11 right, Ed, run on and I'll sit here and 
wait for you; but mind, you musn't be gone 
long. B 

The child sauntered on, picking up here and 
141 



A Confederate for a Day. 

there grim reminders of the day's carnage, 
when suddenly he espied a trophy he had not 
counted upon. A gleam of hated blue greeted 
his eyes from beneath a clump of bushes; a 
real, live Yankee. (< Gemany ! * muttered the 
lad, (< if only Jimmie had come along we might 
have captured him.* (< Hey! boy!* called the 
soldier. Some of the courage he had felt when 
the cannons were roaring and the gray uni- 
forms thick about, suddenly deserted him. He 
was all alone now, and face to face with a 
Yankee soldier. (< Don't be scared, * called the 
soldier, (< I ain't going to hurt you; I just want 
to know if there are any more rebel soldiers 
around.* Thoughts of diplomacy in so small a 
bosom never entered the blue coat's mind. 
Suddenly the boy's courage returned with re- 
doubled force. Visions of taking this Yank by 
strategy filled the bosom of the little (< Johnny.* 
(< I should say so ! * he replied. (( The woods 
are just full of them, and Jubal Early's army 
just below you yonder. You're not the first one 
they have shot spying on our ground.* (( A11 
right, * replied the soldier. <( Go bring your 
men and tell them I surrender.* 
142 



A Confederate for a Day. 

Off ran "the Confederate of a day. * It was 
the one supreme moment of his life. He 
was breathless. His words came by starts. 
<( Brother ! }) he exclaimed, <( I've caught one. A 
scared live Yankee. He thinks these woods are 
full of us. He's surrendered — he wants to be 
took. }) When did the fear of danger ever pre- 
sent itself to Southern heart ? (( Oh ! is that all 
he wants, * replied the young soldier, proudly 
straightening himself to his full height. c< Well, 
I'll take him all right. B Just then a young 
lieutenant came up, and together the three 
went forward, and took charge of the sur- 
rendered soldier. <( He's my man* said little 
Ed as he proudly led the way; <( you all only 
have a hand in this, 'cause you got on uni- 
form.* "All right, Eddie, * laughed the young 
lieutenant. <( We will give you all the glory, 
and we will take the spoils* The soldier in 
question was but a lad, too; a mere boy of 
eighteen; he disarmed the boy in blue. A few 
hundred feet from the prisoner was hitched his 
magnificent bay. <( I'll take charge of the horse, * 
said the lieutenant; and carrying the Yankee's 
arms, he rode proudly away, while the boy in 
143 



A Confederate for a Day. 

blue, weary and downcast, marched slowly be- 
tween the two brothers to Lynchburg. Little 
Edward began to feel sorry for the prisoner now 
that he had lost his liberty, and the beautiful holi- 
ness of childhood asserted itself, and was, after 
all, but an illustration of the fact (made promi- 
nent by General John B. Gordon in his elo- 
quent lecture upon ( The Last Days of the 
Confederacy*), that never in the annals of his- 
tory had such an interchange of kindness 
existed as that shown between the North and 
South in the late Civil War. 

<( Aint you all hungry ? * asked the child. 
<( Yes, }) replied the prisoner, (< I have had nothing 
to eat for twenty-four hours. }> <( Never mind, B 
answered the boy, <( when I see whereabouts 
they put you, I'll carry you something to eat. 
Where are you all from ? w (< From Philadel- 
phia, n was the reply. "Oh!* cried the child, 
" You know my uncle, and my Cousin Jimmie ? * 
c< Philadelphia is a big place, lad, B answered the 
soldier. "Well, they live in that part you call 
Bridesburg! }> said the boy. <( Oh, I know every 
one there; that is my home," answered the 
soldier. "What are their names ? B The boy 
144 



A Confederate for a Day. 

gave them. <( Why, Jimmie is my best friend," 
he replied. More and more downcast grew 
w the Confederate of a day." Closely he fol- 
lowed the boy in blue, waiting until he found 
him imprisoned in the office of the Provost 
Marshal (the room now over Gregory's book- 
store), and then hastening to his anxious 
mother he poured into her astonished ears his 
adventures of the day. He had captured Cousin 
Jimmie's friend — the friend was starving — and 
he had promised him food. What Southern 
mother, think you, ever refused a hungry sol- 
dier food, though his garments were blue in- 
stead of gray ? A smoking hoe-cake, between 
the buttered slices of which rested generous 
slices of ham, was soon in the hands of the 
eager little lad, who sped quickly toward the 
office of the Provost Marshal, where further 
difficulties awaited him, the guard positively 
refusing to permit him to pass. <( But I will 
pass, " he exclaimed. <( I done took that Yankee 
prisoner, and I promised to tote him some- 
thing to eat, and I'm going to give it to him 
myself, too." (( You can't pass," said the guard, 
<( if you give me the food I'll see that he gets 
10 145 



A Confederate for a Day. 

it." "I'll not give it to you," answered the 
boy stoutly. (( I know — you all want to eat it 
yourselves. }) One of the lad's brothers was a 
telegraph messenger boy, and often passed the 
guards with messages. So, nothing daunted, the 
determined boy hastened to Major Gault, then 
in command, where permission to pass was in- 
stantly granted him. The guard displayed his 
white teeth in a broad smile as he passed the 
lad, and exclaimed : (< You'll get thar boy. 
You'd bribe Peter for the key, if you couldn't 
get into glory. * <( I got a sure passport there — 8 
said the boy brightly. (( I won't have to do 
any red-tape business. w A moment later the 
grateful food was placed in the hands of the 
half-famished soldier, and hastening to a near 
spring, the child procured him a bucket of 
water. A few days later the soldier was ex- 
changed. Years have come and gone since 
then, and faithfully, but in vain, sought (< the 
Confederate of a day, w for that Bridesburg boy 
in blue. Among the mighty phalanx of un- 
known dead, he sleeps in Southern soil, un- 
mindful that his ashes mingle with that of 
those who wore the gray. And not until our 
146 



A Confederate for a Day. 

<( Confederate of a day w hears the command 
from the Great General of the universe to 
<( Come up higher, w shall he meet and greet 
the soldier boy in blue, where blue and gray 
blend in harmony as fair as in the clouds 
which sweep the heavens. 



147 




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B 


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O 


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K B 



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2 


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B 


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pq 


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THE TWO HAT PINS 

c « * 

wn the daintiest of a dainty boudoir in a pala- 
|p tial home in Louisville, Kentucky (city of 
beautiful women), within a Dresden jewel-case 
lay two hat pins, still warm from contact with 
the golden-brown head against which they so 
recently nestled. One was a jeweled thing of 
beauty, an amethyst of unusual size, purity, and 
warmth, surrounded by diamonds; the other, a 
Confederate button, bearing the South Carolina 
coat of arms, and the familiar motto, (< Parati 
animis opibusque. w 

"You are a pretty thing, B exclaimed the jew- 
eled pin to the button, <c to be placed upon so 
familiar a footing with me; and I wish you to 
know in the beginning, there can be no inti- 
macy between us; for although your companion- 
ship be forced upon me, I shall ignore you. I 
am a Tiffany pin of the purest water, while 
149 



The Two Hat Pins. 

you are merely a gold-washed brass button, 
which none but a dowdy Southern girl would 
dream of associating with me. n 

<( I cannot boast of wealth or precious stones, w 
replied the button, <( but true to the land of my 
birth, I am proud of the record which money 
cannot buy, and which was won through valor 
and bloodshed. I graced the sleeve of as brave 
an arm as ever carried Southern flag, and for 
four long weary years faithfully we bore the 
Florida flag (barring the time we languished in 
Northern prison) ; and now, right proud am 
I to grace the head of one who prizes me for 
what I am worth. * 

The conversation was interrupted by the en- 
trance of the owner of the pin, accompanied by 
a girl friend, who, bending over the case, 
eagerly grasped the button, and studied it care- 
fully. 

<( Mary ! B she exclaimed, <( You always were 
the luckiest girl in creation in the realization 
of all your desires. Why, I have asked every 
soldier in Louisville for a real Confederate but- 
ton, and while each has promised me one, all 
their promises remain unfulfilled. w 
150 



The Two Hat Pins. 

<( Did you ever see a Kentucky man who 
would refuse a woman his head, if she asked 
it, 8 answered the proud owner of the button, 
(< but to give it to her, that is a different mat- 
ter. » 

(< I would give anything for such a hat pin, * 
went on the friend. (( Did you say it was a 
South Carolina or a Florida man who gave it 
to you, Mary ? * 

<( Both, }) laughed the girl ; <( Captain Smith is 
a South Carolinian by birth, and a Floridian by 
adoption, and as gloriously big-hearted, digni- 
fied, and elegant as South Carolinians always 
are. To be sure,** she added, <( all Southern 
men are generous, but a South Carolina or Vir- 
ginia gentleman has just a little something in 
mannerism which I miss in men from other 
States. For where in the United States could 
you find another so princely and courteous in 
bearing as General M. C. Butler of South Caro- 
lina, or Generals Fitzhugh and Custis Lee of 
Virginia. Very princes among men are these; 
gentlemen of the old regime, which are born, 
and not bred so. They make one long for the 
old South, and that which in the rush and 
151 



The Two Hat Pins. 

hurry of to-day is fast becoming extinct; that 
rare elegance, grace, and magnificence of bear- 
ing which stamp a man's superiority before he 
speaks. * 

(< So far as that goes,* answered Bernice, 
(< Kentucky men are good enough for me. Even 
you must concede the fact, Mary, that our 
men (leaving the women out of the question) 
are the handsomest in America; and I love 
them for being unable to refuse a woman 
anything, even if they never intend giving it 
to her.* The two girls laughed merrily. 

"This is pretty,* exclaimed Mary, handing 
her friend the jeweled pin., 

(< Yes, beautiful, * she replied, <( but any one 
can have such a pin who has the money to 
buy it. I am sure you prize the Confederate 
pin most.* 

(< I would, save for the fact that Clive gave 
me this,* she replied, tenderly replacing the 
jeweled pin. <( I always prize most what Clive 
gives me, and he gives more beautiful things to 
me than I desire him to do, because you know, 
Bernice, we are not to be rich. Ours will be 
but a modest little home.* 

152 



The Two Hat Pins. 

<( Yes, Mary, you are a mystery to me,* 
rattled Bernice. <( The idea of discarding Tom 
Nash, with his princely fortune, for a poor young 
fellow like Clive, struggling for a livelihood. " 

<( But I love Clive, " answered Mary simply, 
<( and, like the Confederate button, money can- 
not buy that." 

<( And such a changed girl as you are, too," 
went on her friend. <( Why I told Robert 
Staunton (whom you had never met) that you 
were the biggest flirt in Kentucky, and he told 
me afterwards that for an hour he thought your 
absent-mindedness but assumed coquettishness, 
until he discovered you were so much in love 
with some one that you could not even show 
a passing interest in another; and that he had, 
in consequence, a poor opinion of my judgment 
of a flirt. But you were the biggest flirt in 
Kentucky before you met Clive, you know you 
were, Mary." 

<( Yes, and all my past life seems so empty. 
Everything seems to me to date back to the 
hour I first met and loved Clive. Our home, 
though ever so humble, shall be a paradise, be- 
cause perfect love for each other and God 
153 



The Two Hat Pins. 

reigns in our hearts. Oh! Bernice, I do so 
wish every girl I meet could be as royally- 
happy as I am." 

<( Mary, you are a dear little goose, M answered 
Bernice. w <( And I reckon you are right in 
painting a halo about your Clive's head, for I 
have never seen a woman change as his love 
has changed you. Why, the Mary I knew, 
would have flirted with Bob Staunton until she 
would have blinded him to every other girl in 
our set, until she saw fit to discard him.^ 

<( You should be pleased then, Bernice, with 
the change, ft smiled Mary, (< for I notice that 
Mr. Staunton is not too blind to admire you 
prodigiously. w 

"Where shall you live when you are married? B 
asked Bernice. 

<( In Richmond, Virginia, the beautiful, dreamy 
old Confederate Capital, B answered Mary, (< and 
you shall visit me, Bernice, and I know some 
charming soldiers there, who will give you a 
whole uniform of buttons, if you will accept 
themselves as well, for they asked me to find 
them a Kentucky sweetheart. w 

<( Bravo, B laughed Bernice. (( They will find 
154 



The Two Hat Pins. 

the Kentucky girls not behind Virginia girls in 
< discarding y them, too, when tired of them. 8 
The two girls laughed, and arm in arm saun- 
tered from the room. 

The hat pins gazed at each other. The 
jeweled pin broke the silence. 

<( I am sorry I was so hasty in my opinion of 
you, B she exclaimed. (< I see you are in better 
repute than I dreamed one in so cheap a garb 
could be, and I am glad to know it, as we are 
so intimately associated. ® 

(< I trust, }> answered the Confederate button, 
that the conversation of the two girls may have 
impressed you with the fact that there are some 
things which money cannot buy ; and that there 
is a truth, grand beyond conception, in the 
teachings of Paul, wherein he says: — 

<( In lowliness of mind, let each esteem others 
better than themselves. w 



155 




" Flowers are God's pretty little thoughts, mamma." 



A CHAPTER FROM A BOY'S LIFE 



§he hero of this simple tale is not a lad too 
tender for any boyish sport. It is only in 
his heart-life and beauty of soul that he stands 
alone. Like a lovely bud, growing daily more 
beauteous as it attains perfect fruition, so the 
baby, as it developed into boyhood, and the boy 
as he is developing into manhood, grows more 
exquisite, in complete oneness with God. He 
was a queer, original baby, whom his mother 
said came into her life because she had <( asked 
God for him," and whom she said she named 
and dedicated to God before his birth. A baby 
with features as beautifully molded as a girl's, 
and coloring as exquisite as the petal of a rose. 
The child's worship for his mother, and hers 
for him, was something the angels must have 
smiled upon. Very often he would sit at her 
feet, and give voice to whatever was in her 
157 



A Chapter from a Boy's Life. 

mind, so exactly seemed their natures in accord 
with each other. The child seemed a living 
demonstration of the broad, beautiful philosophy 
of Emerson, which his mother loved so well. 
His little soul overflowed with beauty, truth, 
and holiness, of which he was a revelation in 
the highest degree, yet withal, full of the 
pranks of childhood. One summer morning, his 
curls tossed in golden fleece about his shoulders, 
his dainty white gown bespattered with mud, 
the little fellow laboriously, and with sturdy, 
determined little fists, threw up shovelful after 
shovelful of mud. A man in passing by paused 
to look at the pretty picture, and called out: 
(< What you trying to do, boy ! dig a well ? * 
The child paused, and with serious gravity re- 
plied: (< No — I'm digging for the devil. * (< For 
the what?* said the man; <( for the devil,* an- 
swered the child. The man laughed until he 
wiped the tears from his cheeks, and replied: 
<( Why, you'd run like a good fellow if you found 
him, boy ! They say he has horns ! * a I wouldn't 
be scared,* answered the baby contemptuously, 
(< I am God's child, and nothing can hurt me. 
Mamma says there is no devil, only the naughty 

158 



A Chapter from a Boy's Life. 

in people's hearts. Tom Jones says ( there just 
is,' and that he ( lives under the ground/ but 
I've digged three days and he hasn't come 
up yet. }) <( You better give him up as a bad 
job/' answered the man. A gorgeously hued 
butterfly flitted by, and dropping his shovel the 
child was off like a flash to give it chase. It 
was the habit of this baby to daily bedeck his 
mother's writing desk with violets and roses, 
which it was his great pleasure to gather for 
her. "They are God's pretty little thoughts. }> 
said the child, <( and as you write and look at 
them, mamma, you'll think of God and me.* 

One day he met a baby at his gate, a baby 
as dirty and forlorn as he was spotless and 
beautiful. <( Why do you not wash ? }) said the 
child. (< God must feel sorry to see you so dirty. 
The little birds wash, and God washes all the 
trees and flowers with rain and dew. When I 
get big, I'll give soap, and brooms, and vase- 
line to everyone like you. You could put the 
vaseline on your face to make it well. Here 
— take this rose, and when you see how sweet 
and clean it is, you, too, will wash." Later — 
when the baby was a baby no longer, but wore 

159 



A Chapter from a Boy's Life. 

trousers and jackets, a playmate remarked to 
him : <( How could you keep from hitting Tom 
Brown when he tore your kite up ? * The boy 
plucked a rose from the bush and threw it to 
the ground. <( See how still the bush is," he 
replied; (< it just blooms on — as sweet as ever 
— and the sun shines — and everything in na- 
ture is always so still — and grand, no matter 
how agitated people are, that it always seems 
to me — a great teacher — that speaks to us from 
God — to be always calm — and still — and smil- 
ing; and then when I am angry, I try to be 
still and say to myself — I am God's child — 
His life — and love — are within me — I must 
not mar His temple with anger. I believe Tom 
Brown will be hurt by that act, because no 
one can do another an unkindness without 
hurting himself. " (< Where do you learn to 
think so many things ? " asked the little friend. 
<( I will tell you," answered the boy. "Mamma 
and myself ( wait before the Lord * every day. B 
<( Do you mean pray?" asked the other. "No," 
was the reply. <( Of course I pray, but not 
when I wait. We wait silently before God — 
while He flows into us His spirit, peace, and all 

1 60 



A Chapter from a Boy's Life. 

health and joy. Our souls and our bodies re- 
ceive the quiet, certain blessing. Why, I never 
go away from home that I do not wish for my 
dear little pine pillow I brought from Pass 
Christian, Mississippi, and which has such sweet 
associations, because I have put my head upon 
it and ( waited > so many times before God for 
His blessing. w (< What do you hear when you 
wait ? B asked the child. <( Nothing, * answered 
the boy; <( I only realize God's presence — and 
practice His presence just as mamma practices 
on the piano. w (< That's queer, 8 said the child. 
(< I never heard of such things. }> (< Yes — it is 
queer, w was the reply, <( but, oh, it just helps 
you every way. I would sooner go without 
dinner than without the waiting. It keeps all 
harm and trouble from you, even sickness; but 
if pain does come — it is only God's lesson to 
us to teach us patience and draw us closer 
to Him. We cannot get so near God in any 
other way, as we can in this waiting in silence 
before Him. You know one of the promises 
is — ( He that dwelleth in the secret place of 
the Most High shall abide under the shadow 
of the Almighty. > w 

ii 161 



A Chapter from a Boy's Life. 

One evening the boy sat beside his mother, 
literally drinking in the melody of one of Bee- 
thoven's sonatas; suddenly he interrupted her. 
"Mamma," he said, (( I feel as though I could 
follow that melody if I had a flute. B The 
mother arose from the piano, and taking up a 
much-read copy of Emerson, pulled the boy 
onto her lap and read : <( The common experi- 
ence of man is, that he fits himself as well as 
he can to the customary details of that work or 
trade he falls into, and tends it, as a dog turns 
a spit. Then is he a part of the machine he 
moves — the man is lost. w Turning to another 
page — much read and underlined — she read 
again: "Each man has his own vocation. The 
talent is the call. There is one direction in 
which all space is open to him. He has fac- 
ulties silently inviting him thither to endless 
exertion. He is like a ship in a river; he runs 
against obstruction on every side but one; on 
that side all obstruction is taken away and he 
sweeps serenely over God's depths into infinite 
sea. >} (< It had been my desire, son, B said the 
mother, <( that you make law your profession ; 
but if any talent calls you in another direction, 

162 




FEEL AS IF I COULD FOLLOW THAT MELODY, IF 1 HAD A FLUTE-" 



A Chapter from a Boy's Life. 

follow it, dear, as God's call.'* A few days later, 
the boy was the proud possessor of a beautiful 
flute. True to his conviction, without instruc- 
tion, clear and sweet were the tones he pro- 
duced, as in perfect harmony he followed each 
selection upon the piano. For a year, now, he 
has studied under Theodore Hahn, Cincinnati's 
finest flutist; and as a beautiful statue grows 
under the hands of a sculptor, so the boy's tal- 
ent assumes the proportion of genius under the 
instruction of the artist. This is but a chapter 
from a boy's life. It is a life so pure, so beau- 
tiful, that, like a ray of sunshine, it sheds light 
upon all about it. And in the language of 
Emerson : (( When we see a soul, whose acts are 
all regal, graceful and pleasant as roses, we 
must thank God that such things can be and 
are. }> 



163 



I 



HOW THE 
CAPTAIN FOUND HIS SERVANT 

(A Tale from Southern Life) 
« « « 

was seated in that snug little recess on the 
second floor of the Atlantic Hotel at Nor- 
folk, Va. (a spot much sought by its guests be- 
cause of the beautiful marine view it affords), 
chatting with Captain W — , one of Norfolk's 
oldest and best-known citizens, who resides in 
the same mansion occupied by his family for 
five generations. 

The Captain possessed, in a marked degree, 
that distinguished bearing peculiar to the South- 
ern soldier, and which upon this occasion was 
accentuated by his uniform of Confederate gray. 
He apologized for wearing it to call upon me, 
stating that he had just been attending the 
funeral of a comrade, and that the entire camp 

165 



How the Captain 

wore their uniforms. I assured him his appear- 
ance needed no apology; that to me the garb 
of Confederacy was more royal than the robe 
of a king. 

The Captain chatted of Norfolk, of its won- 
derful commercial interest, and of its advan- 
tages over other Virginia cities, being a seaport 
town. I fully coincided with him that no city 
in the South was more progressive than Nor- 
folk. At this juncture of our conversation a 
pianette in the street below began loudly play- 
ing <( A11 Coons Look Alike to Me. w 

a I declare, w said the Captain. (< In the lan- 
guage of Polk Miller, * all coons may look alike 
to some, but they don't to me.* I'll say this, 
however, the shiftless, unreliable negroes of the 
present age are astonishingly alike, and alto- 
gether different from the servants of the old 
South, who partook to a certain extent of the 
individuality of their owners, and who are fast 
becoming a feature of the past. 8 

<( Is it true, Captain, » I asked, (< that after 
more than a quarter of a century you found 
your old body servant whom you supposed to 
have been killed at Sharpsburg ? * 

166 



Found his Servant. 

"True as Gospel, and stranger than any fic- 
tion, w he replied. 

( * I never learned the particulars, I should 
love to hear the story, B I suggested. 

<( It came about in this way, }) replied the 
Captain, drawing his chair nearer mine and set- 
tling himself into a more comfortable position. 

<( I was visiting a western town on business, 
and while there was the guest of General H — , 
who was a very gallant soldier in the Union 
army, and, as the wont of soldiers, we fell to 
discussing war times. 'I tell you,* said the 
General, ( we have an old darkey here for whom 
I always feel a deep pity. It seems he was the 
body servant of some Confederate soldier who 
was killed at Antietam, and to whom he had 
been so attached that the master's death com- 
pletely unbalanced his mind. He was taken 
prisoner and brought North, and could never 
tell anything save that he "lived in ole Vir- 
ginny, w and "b'long'd to Marse Capt. and now 
Marse Capt. dade he doan b'long no place. W) 

<( * Is he a Virginia negro ? ' I asked. * From 
this and certain Virginia provincialisms, I take 
it he is,* answered the General. 

167 



How the Captain 

<( ( If he is a Virginia negro I must look him 
up,* I replied. The General rang for his porter 
and dispatched him in quest of the old darkey, 
whom an hour later he ushered into our pres- 
ence. A typical old Virginia darkey I found 
him, save for the ( unbalanced condition } of 
which the General had spoken. 

<( When I made known to him that I was from 
Virginia, his dazed brain seemed momentarily 
to brighten, and he asked, < Does you all know 
my Marse Capt., what killed at Sharpsburg?* 
Being unable to place him, the old slave re- 
lapsed into his semi-conscious state. 

<( ( I tell you, > said the General, ( get him off 
on some of his tales about Marse Captain, when 
they were boys, and he seems sane enough. 
He seems alive only to the past. Life seems 
to have stopped for him with the death of his 
master. * 

<( ( What do you remember best about Vir- 
ginia ? * I asked. The old darkey's face bright- 
ened. 

* * I reckon I members bes' when Marse Capt. 
an' we all's boys; an' ole Marse done come 
mammy's cabin one mawnin, an' he put he han' 



Found his Servant. 

on my haid, an' he say: (< You all come 'th me, 
boy. I done gwine kayh you all to big house. 
You gwine hab new Marse. M An' sho' 'nuff, ole 
Marse done kayh me big house, an' de fiddles 
was a scrapin', an' de table done full ob de mos' 
scrumtifyinest eatens. Um — uh! an' a big cake 
sot in de middle ob de table, wif ten candles 
burning on 't. An' ole Marse done call little 
Marse up, an' he say : <( I done bring you all 
Jim fo' you birfday gift. This Jim's birfday, 
too. You all bof ten years old to-day, an' I 
gwine mek you present ob Jim fo' yo' Sarvent 
to wait on you, an' tek care on you. But mine, 
you has to be kine to Jim; an' you, Jim, you 
mus' 'bey yo' new Marse. You done b'long to 
him now. You doan b'long me no mo'." Gord! 
but dat boy pow'ful tickled. He say he reckon 
I finest present he ever got sho' 'nuff. After 
we all's dinner, he kayh me to woods, toten' he 
gun, jes' as proud an' big as ole Marse hesef. 
Lawd! ole Marse was de proudest lookin' man 
in all Virginny; an' little Marse de zactinest 
picter ob he. I was pow'ful proud dat day, too, 
toten' my new Marse's gun; an' mammy an' 
Mistis, mos' as satisfractious as we all, stan'in' 

169 



How the Captain 

in de gyardin smilin', an' watchin' little Marse 
walkin' off so proud-like, with me an' de dawgs 
foll'in' he, jes' fo' all the wuld like ole Marse 
hesef. Gord! reckon I nevah fergits when some 
po' white trashes boys got me an' Marse into 
disgracefulness. Um — uh! mebbe ole Marse 
didn' wear we all out; an' Mistis 'mos' done 
stracted an' tuk to de baid fo' week. Little 
Marse took we all's thrashin' pow'ful to heart, 
but mammy tuk we all in de pantry an' done 
pacify our feelins wid cake and mince-pie. 
Um — uh! Reckon I take thrashin' now to get 
some mammy's ole Virginny cookins. * 

(( The old darkey paused, and I felt myself 
tremble as I seized the General's arm. 

(< ( This is my old family slave, General, I have 
not the shadow of a doubt, ) I exclaimed. 
( What ! can it be possible ? } asked the General. 

(< ( What occasioned the disgrace, boy ? > I asked. 
But the old darkey's mind had wandered again. 
He shook his head and muttered : ( Marse Capt. 
dade at Sharpsburg. I is kayh'd way, nebbah 
see ole Virginny no mo'.* He subsided into 
silence again. I touched his arm, ( You were 
both whipped for having your arms tattooed. } 

170 



Found his Servant. 

A gleam ot conscious remembrance flitted across 
his countenance, and rolling up his ragged 
sleeve, he bared a dusky arm, revealing his 
name and date of tattoo. I seized the old dar- 
key in my arms, and sobbed aloud; baring my 
own arm, I showed a similar date, and my own 
name. 

(< * Look at me, Jim,* I cried, leading him under 
the full light of the chandelier, ( Who am I ? * 

(<< Good Gord A'mighty,* he exclaimed; * it's 
ole Marse hesef.* 

<( I pointed to his own reflection in an opposite 
mirror, ( Come, boy, * I exclaimed, ( you must 
understand, do you not see how white your own 
hair has grown ? We were children together. 
I am your young master. When the Yankees 
captured you and took you from my side where 
I lay prostrate and bleeding on the field of 
Sharpsburg, I was not dead, as you supposed, 
but only wounded. Poor fellow, the shock has 
turned your faithful brain. Come, Jim, we are 
going to dear old Virginia again. > The old fel- 
low clung to me with the helplessness of a child. 

(< ( Gord A'mighty, Marse ! } he sobbed, ( I is 
pow'ful glad to see you all again, but you alls 

171 



How the Captain Found his Servant. 

po' mine mus' be done 'stracted, tryin' mek me 
bleev you all Marse Capt. Gord! Marse, I pow- 
ful glad to see we alls family once mo'.' 

(< When we returned to Norfolk, and I carried 
the old fellow to visit the grave of my father, 
he insisted it was ( Young Marse's grave, ' and 
until the day of his death, two years subsequent, 
the faithful old servant spent most of his time 
beside the grave at the foot of which he now 
sleeps. ® 

<( There is no fiction equal to reality,® I ex- 
claimed, as the captain closed his story. "None,® 
he replied, (< and as I witness the new ways of 
a new South, and realize that I stand alone 
among the few who belong to the old ante bellum 
days which are gone forever, it helps soothe my 
grief when the coffin-lid closes upon the face 
of my comrades, for it means a reuniting with 
them in another world.® 

As he arose to go, extending a hand in cor- 
dial good-bye, while in the other he held the 
broad-brimmed hat of Confederate gray, I looked 
at the splendid courtly gentleman of the old 
regime, and sighed — that all too fast they are 
passing away. 

172 



THE BRIDAL CHAMBER 

OF FLORIDA'S SILVER SPRINGS 
« « « 

^^ear Florida's celebrated Silver Springs lives 
°f^j§ an old negress, known to the entire sur- 
rounding community as <( Aunt Silly, w and whose 
claim to being one hundred and ten years old 
is borne out by her appearance. Aunt Silly is 
wrinkled and decrepit, and the wool peeping 
from her bandannaed head is white as snow, 
while the blackness and weirdness of her face 
is intensified by a heavy crop of snow-white 
beard. 'As long as the oldest citizens of Ocala 
and surrounding vicinity can remember, Aunt 
Silly has looked just as ancient as she does 
now; identified always with Silver Springs, and 
hobbling about them from morning until night, 
leaning upon her short thick staff. That 
she was participant in a tragedy, is known 
only to a very few of Ocala's oldest citizens, 

173 



The Bridal Chamber. 

and seldom referred to by any of them. In 
the near vicinity of Ocala, when first it was 
settled, stood a splendid old mansion, owned by 
Captain Harding Douglass, a South Carolinian 
of considerable wealth. His only child was a 
son, who with his mother's beauty of counte- 
nance, had inherited her tender, shrinking na- 
ture, and, like herself, was a slave to the old 
man's iron will. In the beautiful little city of 
Ocala lived Bernice Mayo, whose blonde beauty 
won, at first sight, the heart of Claire Douglass. 
Although of Virginia ancestry, Bernice was a 
true child of the <( Land of Flowers, B passion- 
ate and impulsive. Her eyes were blue and 
clear as the waters of Lake Munroe, beside 
which she had spent her childhood in the fair 
little city of Sanford. Her hair was as golden 
as Florida's own sunshine, and Florida's tropi- 
cal splendor ran riot in her blood. For six 
months, Bernice Mayo and Claire Douglass 
were constant companions, and Silver Springs 
was their favorite resort. For half a day at a 
time they would drift about on the bosom of 
the splendid, placid curiosity of nature. 

Bernice seemed never to tire of gazing into 
174 



The Bridal Chamber. 

the depths of this subterranean world. (< If I 
were a mermaid, Claire, B she would say, <( and 
lived in yon crystal cavern, and some fair day 
I should wander forth among the palmettos and 
mosses of the Springs, and, sitting on yonder 
ledge of rock, should ( comb my golden hair 
with a shell,* and your boat should come drift- 
ing by, and you see me in the water beneath, 
would you love me well enough to plunge — 
plunge to the depths beneath to woo me ? 5) 
Then would Claire stop her merry chatter with 
his kisses, and pledge to her his eternal love, 
as they drifted over the transparent mirror of 
water, pausing now and then to study the rocks 
and shells, the mosses, palmettos, and fish, 
which were as visible eighty feet beneath the 
transparent water as were the trees and wood- 
land about them. There is nothing fairer than 
Ocala's <( Lovers' Lane, w and yet no spot held 
for these young people the attraction of Silver 
Springs — their constant trysting spot. But 
there came a fatal day — destined to separate 
them. A day wherein Claire Douglass declared 
to his father his love for beautiful, penniless 
Bernice Mayo, and his determination to make 

175 



The Bridal Chamber. 

her his wife. Stormily his father vowed it 
should never be, and secretly planned a separa- 
tion. When Claire Douglass had been speedily 
dispatched abroad on important business for his 
father, then it was that Bernice learned the 
truth, and her proud, delicate nature lay 
crushed and bleeding beneath the cruel blow 
and still more cruel separation. Vainly she 
strove to rally; all life seemed but an empty 
blank to her. 

A year dragged wearily by, and the scenes 
frequented by merry Bernice Mayo -knew her 
no more. Paler and thinner she daily grew. 
Fragile she was as the white blossoms of her 
well-loved Springs. The little chain of gold 
Claire had locked upon her arm would have 
slipped across the wasted, transparent hand but 
for the ribbon which held its links. One day 
(her last upon earth) the girl by dint of des- 
perate energy crept to the station and boarded 
the train for Silver Springs. Even old Aunt 
Silly was unprepared for the white, emaciated 
little creature who tottered into her cabin 
door and fell fainting in her arms. Conscious- 
ness soon returned; but it was apparent even to 

176 



The Bridal Chamber. 

the old black woman that death had set his 
gray, unmistakable seal upon the young face. 
(< Aunt Silly, }> gasped the girl, (< I have come to 
you to die, and you must obey my last request; 
the grave divulges no secrets. Ere to-night's 
sun sets, I shall be in heaven. This separation 
from the man I love has been my death — but 
in that death — we shall be reunited. I have 
asked God — and he has heard me. But you — 
Aunt Silly — you must obey my request. You 
loved me — you will do as I ask you. To-night 
— when the moon comes out — row my body to 
Boiling Spring, and bury me there. You know 
the spot — make no mistake. Do this, and God 
will attend to the rest." (( Good Gord A'mighty, 
chile, you think Aunt Silly am gwine tote dade 
body off in de lonesomely night ? w asked the old 
woman, her very teeth chattering with the super- 
stitious fear peculiar to her race. The girl 
realized the risk of her plan being thwarted, 
and raising herself to a sitting posture, she 
seized the old woman's hands and fixed her dy- 
ing eyes full upon her face. 

( 'Aunt Silly, * she gasped, (< I am a dying 
woman — I am very near to God — I have talked 
12 177 



The Bridal Chamber. 

with Him — and He has answered me. My will 
has been crushed in life — I swear it shall not 
be in death. Before twenty-four hours Claire 
Douglass shall join me in the crystal cavern of 
Silver Springs. If you do not grant my request 
every spirit of evil shall surround you. Palsied 
and blind you shall grow — and deaf; deaf to 
every sound but the ghosts of the dead, which 
shall pursue you by day and haunt you by 
night. Do you swear to obey my dying re- 
quest — or will you refuse me — and reap the 
prophecy of a dying woman, which shall rest 
upon your cowardly head — for refusing to obey 
God's will. 8 The old woman was shaking like 
an aspen. Her eyes protruded with fear, and 
great beads of perspiration rolled down her 
cheeks. The strength of the dying girl's will 
had prevailed, and the old woman answered: 
(< I promises, honey, — I promises. w It was a 
solemn and awful sight that night, witnessed 
alone by God and nature, the boat — which 
drifted down Silver Springs in the moonlight, 
bearing its two strange occupants. The one — 
weird, bent and grotesque; the other — so silent, 
so white, so pathetic, in its dead loveliness. 

178 



The Bridal Chamber. 

Not a leaf was stirring — not a sound heard — 
but the plash — plash of the old woman's oars, 
as her boat, with its strange, beautiful burden, 
drifted down the curious, transparent body of 
water. Drifted until it reached Boiling Spring, 
then veered about, and stood still. Gently, 
and easily as if it had been a babe, the old 
woman lifted the little body. Something of 
her fear had departed — in the placid smile of 
the sweet, dead face. Tears rolled down her 
dusky cheeks, as she bent forward in obedience 
to the girl's curious request. For a moment 
the body rocked to and foe on the bosom of 
the water upon which its happiest moments had 
been spent. The dead face smiled, and the 
wealth of hair gleamed in the moonlight like a 
sheen of gold. Every pebble was visible in the 
depth below. Suddenly, as if by magic, the 
body began sinking. The boiling of the spring 
had ceased, showing the peculiar little fissure 
in the rock from whence all the strange body 
of water came. The fissure slowly divided, 
received the dead body and closed again, shut- 
ting every vestige of it from view. (< Gord 
A'mighty! Dat chile a angel sho nuff. She 

179 



The Bridal Chamber. 

mus done talked de Lawd sho', to knowed 
how all dat gwine be," muttered the old woman, 
as she rowed back to her cabin in the moon- 
light. A mocking bird on the opposite shore 
sent forth a flood of silver melody. <( Hear dat 
now," muttered Aunt Silly, <( dat bird done 
sendin' foth he weddin' song fo' de bridegroom. 
Come on Claire Douglass — yo' little bride am 
waitin' for you more pacifyin den she waited 
many long day.* 

The day following the death of Bernice Mayo 
was one never to be forgotten by the citizens 
of Ocala. Claire Douglass had just returned 
after a year's absence. He found his beautiful 
cousin (whom his father desired to become his 
wife) a guest at the home of his parents. 
(< Claire, w said the father, as they lingered over 
the breakfast table, (< I have a fine new launch 
at Silver Springs, and I wish you to take your 
cousin for a sail this morning, and, by the per- 
mission of you young people, I shall make one 
of your party. * <( Delightful, uncle ! w cried the 
girl, and Claire, while he turned a trifle pale 
at the thought of returning to the spot where 
all that had given color to his life had trans- 

180 



The Bridal Chamber. 

pired, could only acquiesce. Claire Douglass 
looked unusually handsome as the party drifted 
down Silver Springs in the April sunshine, but 
there was a curious pallor upon his face — and 
the uncle and niece were left to carry on all 
the conversation. What a contrast the bloom- 
ing girl in the April sunshine bore to the one 
in the solemn moonlight who had drifted over 
the same water the evening before. As the 
launch neared Boiling Spring, the party noted a 
little boat hovering over it. The boat was 
rowed by Aunt Silly; and its other occupant 
was an old woman whose eyes were swollen 
with weeping. The launch paused beside the 
little rowboat, and the occupants of each gazed 
into the curious, transparent depths below. 

Suddenly the niece cried out, (( Oh, see ! that 
looks like a hand, a little human hand. * Plainer 
and more visible it grew, the little white hand 
with its gold chain locked about the slender 
wrist. Ah, little hand! Claire Douglass would 
have known you among ten thousand hands. 
His face was white as death, and he gasped, as 
though choking. All were intent upon the scene 
below. Suddenly the boiling of the water ceased, 



The Bridal Chamber. 

and out upon a rock in its transparent depth, 
like a broken, beautiful lily, lay Bernice Mayo, 
her golden hair floating on the sand, her dead 
face smiling placidly as if — at last a halo of 
peace had descended upon the tired spirit, and 
the broken heart had found rest. With a wild 
cry, which pierced even the heart of the mother, 
who for the last time in life gazed upon the 
dead face of her child, Claire Douglass dashed 
overboard, diving deeper — ever deeper — until 
he caught in his arms the little figure of his 
dead love. Then — once more the rock divided, 
and closed, shutting from view forever, the lov- 
ers, who lay locked in each other's embrace. 
And again the water whirled and boiled in its 
mad fury, as if to defy the puny will of him 
who would have separated what God had joined 
together. As for the first time the secret bridal 
chamber of Silver Springs has been made known 
to the world, it will be interesting to its future 
visitors, as they approach that part of it known 
as <( Boiling Springs, w to note in the whirr of 
water beneath (the only portion of the springs 
not perfectly placid) the constant shower of tiny 
pearl-like shells poured forth from the fissure 

182 



The Bridal Chamber. 

in the rock, and which Aunt Silly says are the 
jewels the angels gave Bernice Mayo upon her 
wedding morning, when her lover joined her in 
their fairy palace in Silver Springs. There is, 
too, a curious flower growing in the Springs. 
A flower with leaf like a lily, and blossom 
shaped like an orange bloom. Its peculiar waxy 
whiteness and yellow petals are like Bernice 
Mayo's face and hair, Aunt Silly says, and she 
calls them (< Bernice bridal wreath. M There is 
a legend among the young people of Ocala, that 
a woman presented with one of these blossoms, 
shall become a bride ere the close of the year. 



183 







z^fc 







POEMS 



185 




'< Behold ! the image cold seemed to have grown 
Into real life — a woman, sweet and fair." 



TEMPTATION 



Chanted was the last Ave Maria, 

Annunciation Feast was at a close, 
And round the altar of the Virgin bless'd, 

The fragrance of the incense still arose. 

And dense the subtle waves of sweet perfume, 
In soft and filmy clouds still lingered there, 

As though they would obscure from all rude gaze 
The Virgin's face, so chaste, so meekly fair. 

Deep-toned, the vesper bell rang out its song, 

And woke an echo to the melody 
In hearts of all save one, and that the priest's, 

Who knelt alone in silent litany. 

Soft, one by one the stars begemmed the sky, 
And through the windows moonbeams weird 
stole in, 
And still the silent priest beheld them not, 

Alone with Christ — he fought against his sin. 
187 



Temptation. 

As stifling as a tomb had grown the church, 
The passion pictures all along the nave 

Breathed ghastly fancies to the heated brain 

Of him whom Satan sought to claim his slave. 

When lo ! Cathedral walls seemed to dissolve, 

And nature, fresh and fair from God's own 
hand, 

Spread o'er his head her canopy of blue, 
And at his feet rich trophies of the land. 

Bright hued the butterflies went flitting by, 

And birds made gay the woodland with their 
song, 
While sweet the old-time scent ot wild flowers came, 
And sweet came memories that had slumbered 
long. 

Sharp dropped the rosary from his trembling hand, 
For kneeling there before the Virgin's throne, 

He felt a human breath soft kiss his cheek, 

Behold! the image cold seemed to have grown 

Into real life — a woman, sweet and fair; 

The swelling bust, the snowy neck and arm, 
The golden hair, a fitting picture, made 

To suit the scene, and thus complete its charm. 




« The fair dream picture vanished from his view, 
And with it, sin cast off her blooming mask. 1 ' 



Temptation. 

The red lips smiled, the white hand clasped his 
own; 

He shivered, and his face grew white as death; 
A mighty wind seemed to o'ersweep his frame, 

And from his parched lips, hard came his breath. 

Soft as the gentle finger-tips of sleep 

On weary eyes, yet keen as scorching fire, 

Her hand's electric touch thrilled every vein, 
And left him overpowered with mad desire 

To seize and clasp her in his close embrace, 
And in one long, sweet kiss, forget the vow 

To priesthood's claim, and pillowed on her breast, 
His lips on hers, live only in the now. 

The fair dream-picture vanished from his view, 
And with it, sin cast off her blooming mask, 

And stood unsheathed in all her ugliness, 

And mocked, and taunted him as if to ask — 

Of what avail were sacred oath and vow, 
If, like a mighty wind o'er sweeping reed, 

The flower-soft touch of one fair woman's hand 
Could overweigh the strength of church's 
creed ? 



189 



Temptation. 

The first faint flush of dawn blushed in the east, 
And through cathedral windows trembled fair, 

Until it shed a halo on the head 

Of him who wrestled all night long in prayer. 

And when the Angelus pealed forth its call, 

And brought the people to the church once 
more, 

They gazed upon the priest in fear and awe, 
Amazed at the angelic look he wore. 



iqo 




" They gazed upon the priest in fear and awe, 
Amazed at the angelic look he wore." 



VILLANELLE 



Oh, dainty, sweet-breathed jasmine flower, 

I read the message passing well, 
Ye brought from fragrant southern bower; 

Brought to my heart with magic power, 

From voice more southern sweet than thou, 
Oh, dainty, sweet-breathed jasmine flower. 

And not for earth's most tempting dower, 

Would I exchange the message sweet 
Ye brought from fragrant southern bower. 

I seem to feel a golden shower 

Of southern sunshine warm in thee, 
Oh, dainty, sweet-breathed jasmine flower. 

I dream — nor heed the passing hour; 

From Cupid's cup I drain the draught, 
Oh, dainty, sweet-breathed jasmine flower, 
Ye brought from fragrant southern bower. 
191 



1 MISS YOU SO 

(Respectfully dedicated to Mrs. George Howell Finn) 



The ocean tosses at my feet, 

I love its ebb and flow, 
And yet its burden seems to be, 

I miss you — miss you so. 

Upon its bosom sails a ship, 
It stately drifts, and slow, 

It bears a missive saying, dear 
I miss you — miss you so. 

Upon my breast a crimson rose 
Breathes sweet, as zephyrs blow, 

But e'en its incense seems to say, 
I miss you — miss you so. 

The moon in sky-land meadow drifts 
O'er sea, in bed of snow, 

And yet its brightness saddens me, 
I miss you — miss you so. 
192 



MISSISSIPPI ON THE GULF 

(Pass Christian, Miss.) 



My heart is jest a-pinin' fer the South, 

A-longin' an' a-achin' fer to see 
The sun a gleamin', streamin' through the leaves 

Of lilac-blossomed china-berry tree. 

A-longin' fer the jasmine's incense sweet, 

The honeysuckle, an' the pinewood's green, 

The gulf a-lashin', dashin' on the beach, 

"Where loungin' you can catch the sea air keen. 

An' when upon the gulf the moonlight sleeps, 
The water gleams a-tremblin' bed of white, 

An' clear the mock-birds sing an' ring their song, 
Athwart the odorous stillness of the night. ' 

Oh, dear old Mississippi on the gulf, 
My heart is just a-achin' fer to see 

The sunlight driftin', siftin' through the leaves 
Of creamy-blossomed, tall magnolia tree. 
13 *93 



WHY DANDELIONS TURN GRAY 



A fine young lord came flitting by, 

Gold-coated bumblebee; 
He gayly humm'd an old love-song, 

A sad, sad flirt was he. 

Upon a dandelion he smiled, 
And praised her yellow hair, 

And vowed if she would grant a kiss 
Allegiance he would swear. 

The dandelion her fair face hid 

Within her golden hair, 
And deemed it strange a gay young lord 

Should find plebeian fair. 

<( No Loves but vagrant winds have I, }) 

She said with tossing head, 
(( And should I give to you a kiss, 

'Twould not be missed, }> she said. 
194 



Why ^Dandelions Turn Gray. 

Close by a little violet, 

Shamed — drooped her azure eyes; 
The lily hung her modest head, 

The rose blushed with surprise. 

A listening bird sang overhead, 

(< Oh, dandelion, beware, w 
While at her feet a katy-did, 

Sharp chirped, (( take care — take care." 

But recked she not their warning notes, 

Nor heeded flowers' surprise, 
Her silly heart was proud, that she 

Found grace in royal eyes. 

The lord then kissed her fragrant lips, 

Caressed her golden hair, 
And whispered that, midst all the flowers, 

She reigned the queen most fair. 

And every day more vain she grew, 
In that her wond'rous charms 

Should lift her from a humble lot, 
And give her coat of arms. 

But as the summer glided by 

Her heart with fear grew numb, 

For promises that were not kept, 
And lord who did not come. 
195 



Why ^Dandelions Turn Gray. 

And all her golden locks turned gray, 
Her face grew blanched with fear, 

Lest ne'er again her lover's voice 
In rapture she should hear. 

In woe she cried unto the gods, 

(( If my Love's false, I pray 
Ye bid Hermes come unto me, 

And waft my soul away. w 

She turned about, and there beheld 

His lordship at her side, 
His mouth all sweet with choice perfume, 

From lips of moss-rose bride. 

And lo! unto her Hermes came, 

And bore her soul away, 
Unto Olympus' snowy heights, 

Where reigns eternal day. 

And since she trifled thus with Love, 

The debt her race must pay 
By forfeiting their golden locks; 

So — dandelions turn gray. 

And thus it is with maid or flower 
Whose love's not well bestowed, 

The fetter, though a band of gold, 
The victim's soul must goad. 
196 



LINES TO A BEAUTIFUL GIRL 



Shake out your fragrance, dew-drenched rose, 
Breathe soft your incense, jasmine sweet, 

Bear them, O breeze, in fragrant kiss, 
To Flossie, fair, on wings so fleet. 

The whiteness of the lily fair, 

The warmth of crimson-hearted rose, 

The grace and beauty of the gods, 
In lovely Flossie all repose. 

The quiet of cathedral dim, 

The joyous music of the birds, 
Are Flossie's: — She a symphony 

Set to a poem of sweet words. 



197 



AWAY DOWN IN GEORGIA 



A mountain lad and lassie fair, 
As free from care as birds in air, 
A lovely, thoughtless, happy pair, 
Away down in Georgia. 

Untaught, the lad, in worldly way, — 
The lass coquettish, wild and gay; 
She broke a heart in sportive play, 
Away down in Georgia. 

Long years have come and gone since then; 
The mountain lad of (( Jasmine Glen w 
Is shrewdest of the legal men, 
Away down in Georgia. 

A woman lone, in foreign clime, — 
A statesman, in his manhood's prime, — 
Each sighing for <( the auld lang syne, w 
Away down in Georgia. 



Away 'Down in Georgia. 

When they were lad and lassie fair, 
As free from care as birds in air, 
A lovely, thoughtless, happy pair, 
Away down in Georgia. 



199 



PROTEST 

Ah, ye, whose souls dwell not among the clouds, 
Who cull not bright-hued fancies from the flowers, 

Hear not sweet music wafted on the breeze, 
What know ye of this mystic world of ours ? 

What know ye of the fierce intensity 

Of Pleasure ? (god-born nymph for which we 
weep, 
And slay King Reason in a single quaff 

From Cupid's cup, with which our souls we steep.) 

Then judge us not, ye folks of mundane sphere ; 

Your earth-bound feet can never hope to press 
The <( milky way B of heaven, that path of gods, 

Nor touch the bright-hued train of Iris' dress. 



VILLANELLE 



'Neath a sunbonnet smiled my face, 

a Fresh as a rose, " my sweetheart said ; 
'Neath a sunbonnet soft with lace. 

<( Like flower in an exquisite vase, 

Or jewel rich and rare," he said, 
'Neath a sunbonnet smiled my face. 

And he said that my <( roguish grace" 

Made him my (< captive," when I smiled 
'Neath a sunbonnet soft with lace. 

And now I smile from jeweled case, 

He caught me with his cam'ra, when — 
'Neath a sunbonnet smiled my face, 
'Neath a sunbonnet soft with lace. 




(( It shall live in song and story, 
Though its folds are in the dust." 

THE STARS AND BARS 



The bonny flag, the stars and bars, 
The dear old flag we loved so well, 

Our flag immortal, for 'twill live 
Always in tales that poets tell. 

Aye ! more than this ; 'twill ever live 
In every throb of Southern heart, 
In tender love — more priceless far 
Than bloomless laurels could impart. 
202 



The Stars and "Bars. 

Not only shall its tnem'ry live 

In noble hearts that wore the gray, 

But cherished, just as tenderly, 

For their dear sakes in after day. 

When their brave hearts have ceased to beat, 
And unborn youth their places fill, 

The dear old flag, the stars and bars, 
In tenderest love will linger still. 

And sons and daughters proudly wear 
Upon their breasts its symbol dear, 

While mothers teach their lisping babes 
To reverence the old flag with tear. 



203 



ONENESS 



You seem so near to-night, 

Your eyes smile into mine 
With the same tender light 
That made my life so bright 

With sunshine — caught from thine. 

And e'en your voice I hear, 
I start — and turn around, 

As rich, and full, and clear, 

There falls upon my ear 

That magic old-time sound. 

I feel your hand clasp mine, 

And tremble at its thrill, 
While all the magic grace 
Of your proud loving face 

Doth beam upon me still. 
204 



Oneness. 

And now — glow warm and rich 

Your kisses half divine, 
They thrill adown my veins 
As might the fiery stains 

Of some rich, rare old wine. 

And is this but a dream ? 

Ah no, o'er time and space, 
O'er stretch of land and sea, 
You'll ever come to me 

In all your magic grace. 



205 



ECHO 

(Dedicated to Lucretia Heine Zink, aged three, who gave inspiration to 
the poem.) 



A baby face with tear-wet eyes 
Leaned o'er a deep-curbed well, 

<( I'd det you wif a stick, " she cried, 
<( If I knew where you fell." 

(< Is it your doll, my love ? " said I ; 

She shook her golden head, 
(( I'll det her wif a great big stick, 

It's Echo, dear," she said. 

(( Dear little Echo that loves me ; 

Now hark! ( I love you! ) hear?" 
And up from out the deep old well, 

Came <( love you," soft and clear. 

(< Echo's a water nymph, my sweet, 
And that's her home," said I; 

If you should bring her here to live, 
Poor little thing would die. 
206 



Echo. 

<( She lives down deep in Crystal Cave, 
In home that's bright and fair." 

"She's happy then!" the baby said, 
(< I dess I'll leave her there. B 

And thus it is with sage and seer; 

They smile and weep in vain, 
Not knowing that the grief or joy 

But echoes their own brain. 



207 



WHAT HER SISTER THOUGHT 



I wouldn't dive my pretty doll 

To Echo in the well, 
Nor dive gold buttons to the goose, 

If out my dwess they fell, 

Like 'Cretia did; for when next year 
Dear Santa makes our tree, 

He'll find all 'Cretia's things are gone 
And then he'll say — <( Oh me! 

She didn't keep a single thing 
I bringed to her last year; 

I dess this time I'll have to dive 
Them to her Sister dear.** 

And so I will not dive my doll 

To Echo in the well, 
Nor feed the gooses buttons gold, 

If out my dwess they fell. 



208 



CLEOPATRA 



Here, Charmion! unbind my locks, 
And let their bright luxuriant fold, 

Sweep unconfined — in glittering mass, 
Bedecked in Egypt's regal gold. 

My robe of finest texture bring, 
With filmy lace, and jewels rare, 

That Cleopatra may to-night, 

Amongst the fairest, reign most fair. 

And then, by all the gods I swear, 

When Rome's proud ruler 'gain we greet, 

Despite his honor or his land, 

Meek he shall kneel at Egypt's feet. 

Your virtue, cold Octavia, 

Your station proud — and you his wife, 
Can never bind great Antony, 

For mine he is — and mine for life. 
209 



Cleopatra. 

In wildest triumph swells my heart, 

And fire seems coursing through my veins, 

Kindling anew old thoughts and dreams, 
Recalled from mem'ries long-lost strains. 

Haste then! ye lagging moments, haste! 

And bring proud Antony to my feet, 
With all the passion of his love, 

With all his ardent wooing sweet. 

Bring back to me my Roman love, 

My princely ruler, warrior bold, 
E'en now he loves me better far, 

Than people, country, fame or gold. 

Haste then, my gentle Charmion, 

Bring richest robe, and gems most rare, 

That Cleopatra may to-night, 

Amongst the fairest, reign most fair. 



RETROSPECTION 

(Dedicated to Lulu Bainbridge Zink.) 



Just ask old Time to stand aside ; 

Swing wide his curtain, sister mine, 
And fairy-pinioned let us drift 

Again to childhood's glad playtime; 

To childhood's simple guileless joys, 

When bird or flower called forth a smile, 

When we knew not a single care, 

Nor knew the world's deceit and guile. 

Old Time! — thy curtain wider sweep, 
Grudge not to me this slight request, 

There — little sister, can you see 

How gay the fields and woods are dressed ? 

Our playhouse in the garden, too, 
Beneath yon clump of lily bloom, 

Where gladsome summers swiftly sped, 
And our young hearts were all attune 
211 



Retrospection. 

To summer's poesy and song; 

Ah ! childish dreamers we, and quaint, 
Methinks I ofttimes catch the smell 

Of those same flowers, that memories paint. 

Yet, since on ocean, I my bark 

With boldness all her sails unfurl, 

This maddened current I'll not shun, 
For calmer harbor — little girl. 



REGRET 

All evenin' I've been settin' here 

A-cryin' to myself, 
Over this ragged little book, 

From off the garret shelf. 
It's twenty years an' over now, 

Sence I have seen the book, 
I felt so lonely-like to-night, 

I thought I'd go an' look 

Fer it; fer somehow all these years 

I've hankered fer that book, 
A-layin' there deserted — an' 

Dust covered in its nook. 
I couldn't trust my feelin's though, 

An' so I let it lay 
All dusty on the garret shelf 

Until this very day. 
213 



Regret. 

You see it b'longed to little Tom, 

Who died long years ago; 
It seems to me but yisterday, 

Though time does drag so slow; 
I almost see his little head 

A-bendin' o'er the book, 
A-lookin' at the picters there, 

As children like to look. 

I almost hear his little voice 

Ring out in merry glee, 
As he'd pick out the picters in't 

An' tell uv them to me. 
His sunny curls a-tumblin' down 

Jes techin' uv the book, 
While he looked at the picters in't 

As children like to look. 



The losin' of him, I might stand, 

Though time does drag so slow, 
Ef it was not fer what I done 

Mor'n twenty years ago. 
One brilin' day in summer time 

When I'd been workin' hard, 
A-bakin', an' a-washin', an' 

A-weedin' in the yard. 
214 



Regret. 

My little Tom came runnin' up, 

A-holdin' of the book, 
An' sayin', (< See this picter, dear, 

Oh mother ! please do look ! w 
But I was warm, an' awful tired, 

An' didn't want to see, 
An' so I turned an' slapped the child, 

An' cried, (< Quit botherin' me ! w 

I still kin see the big tear-drops, 

Come to his little eyes; 
But how should I know baby Tom 

Was ripenin' fer the skies ? 
An' that day wus the very last 

He ever teched the book, 
He went an' put it on the shelf 

With sech a sorry look. 

An' that night he wus taken sick, 

An' all the time he'd say, 
(< Oh mother, I won't bother you, 

I'll take my book away." 
I hear it durin' all the day, 

I hear it all the night; 
It comes to me with every sound, 

It comes with every sight; 
215 



Regret. 

An' when I'm settin' here alone 

An' mem'ries round me crowd, 
An' th' clock ticks so lonesome-like, 

An' sounds all seem so loud, 
It's then I see" the little face, 

So dimpled, an' so fair, 
The big blue eyes brim-full of tears, 

The curly yaller hair, 
The little voice draws nearer then, 

So plain it seems to say, 
<( Oh mother, I won't bother you, 

I'll take my book away." 



216 



INFINITE 



I have wept in tempestuous fashion 

Till my eyes have grown dim with their 
tears, 
Ever striving to crush out a passion 

That must only grow stronger with years. 

Heart and brain have held combat together, 
And have waged a war, bitter and strong, 

But the brain's reasoning weighs not a feather 
In the heart's current, fiery and strong. 

I have wildly implored help from heaven, 
Help to crush down and bury this love, 

But I know, should all heaven be riven 

Of its strength and sent down from above, 

'Twould avail not; for stronger than this is, 
Is the love that I know cannot die; 

And from out of the depth of its blisses, 
Forever and ever 'twill cry. 
217 



Infinite. 

From my sight oft I think it entombed, 
So deep down that no eye can discover ; 

But anon — it will burst forth illumed, 
All too fair, for such uncanny cover. 

And it bridges all time and all space, 
Ah, yes, all — that can keep us apart ; 

Till it clasps me in eager embrace — 

Close — so close to its warm beating heart. 

And to-night, in the cruel starvation 
Of this pitiless, passionate love, 

For one kiss I would barter creation, 
And vie with the joy that's above. 



218 



A DARK NIGHT 



You all can harp about moonlight, 
As much as ever you please, 

Its shinins an' its shadders, how 
They play amongst the trees. 

But just give me a pitch-dark night, 
With black clouds in the sky; 

You want to know the reason, hey? 
Well! I can tell you why. 

'Twas on jest such an evenin'; Oh! 

(I mind right well the weath'r), 
A lot of us was comin' home 

From dancin' school together. 

An' somebody was next to me, 
You needn't ask me who! 

An' in the dark he held my hand, 
An' kep' on hold'n it, too, 
219 



A Dark Night. 

Until we reached the doorstep, an' — 

When he's about to go, 
I felt his lips soft pressed to mine, 

An' heard him whisper low: 

Somethin' 'at made me — Oh, so glad, 

I can't fergit the night, 
An' I know he would not have said 't, 

If it had been moonlight. 

So you can harp about moonlight, 
As much as ever you please, 

Its shinins an' its shadders, how 
They play amongst the trees. 

But jes give me a pitch-dark night, 
With clouds a-rollin' grand, 

An' my sweetheart walkin' with me, 
A-holdin' of my hand. 



GOLD VS. LOVE 



Shake out the trailing sheeny silk, 

Unfold the dainty lace, 
Place buds upon her golden hair, 

Just o'er her flower-like face. 

Make fast these gems upon her arms, 
These in her shell-like ears; 

Heed not the mist o'er her soft eyes, 
Which gem their blue with tears. 

And trail the gauzy bridal veil, 

Across her tear-wet eyes, 
Forget her proud mouth's quivering, 

Forget her stifled sighs. 

From out the gleam of starlit past, 

Into the gloom of now, 
There comes from rust of bygone years, 

A face — and broken vow. 



Gold vs. Love. 

But what's a handsome face and love — 

From out the dreamy past? 
Why here are title, land and wealth, 

The things that give one cast. 

Then bring ye forth the gray-haired groom, 

So wrinkled and so old, 
And pray forget the tearful bride 

Has sold herself for gold. 

Come forth, ye tearful, shrinking bride, 

Forget the sweet, dead past, 
Accept your title, land and gold, 

The things that give one cast. 



LINES TO MY MOTHER 



We miss you as the flowers miss 

The gentle fall of rain, 
Or as we miss the roses, or 

The song-bird's sweet refrain. 

When evening's purple twilight comes, 

At golden noontide hour, 
There's ever something lacking in 

Their splendor and their power. 

Even your pet canary, and 

Your parrot, gorgeous green, 

Your absence note with silence and 
Would welcome you, I ween, 

With burst of song and chatter that 
Will prove that even they 

Are glad your long and weary stay 
At length has passed away. 
223 



Lines to My Mother. 

And as first buds of springtime smile 

Upon our welcome sight, 
Or as with pleasure, after dark, 

We hail dawn's rosy light, 

We welcome thy dear coming, Oh, 
Thou queen of heart and home; 

Our love is like the ocean deep, 
Our pleasure as its foam. 



224 



CONTENT 



The wind blows keen, the sleet sifts fine, 

Yet merrily I plod along; 
My happy heart is keeping time 

To love's sweet pictures set to song. 
Into the night 
There gleams a light 
From yonder cot hard by, 
Where faces dear, 
And hearty cheer, 
Both pain and care defy. 

I'd not exchange with any king 

His palace for my humble lot, 
Where she who wears my wedding-ring, 
Like queen, adorns my humble cot. 
Through sleet and rain, 
From window-pane, 
A form of baby grace, 
With eyes of blue, 
Is peering through 
To spy her daddy's face. 
225 



Content. 

Oh, baby dear, your sunny hair 

I'd not exchange for misers' gold; 
Oh, little wife, no thought of care 

Is mine, when I such treasures hold. 
Athwart the night 
Yon candle bright 
To me is beacon star; 
I haste me fast, 
Through sleet and blast, 
To where my treasures are. 



226 



CHASTENED 



Whene'er in life the soul's great scale 

Is swept by master hand, 
It vibrates to a chord of pain 

We can not understand. 

The soul that hears the rhapsodies 
Of heaven while here below, 

Must stand alone and view the throng 
Which 'bout him ebb and flow. 

Each pain holds bliss, tho' deeply hid, 
Each gift withheld proves joy, 

And only life that's hid in Christ 
Finds peace — without alloy. 



227 



REVERY 

(PABLO BEACH, FLORIDA.) 



The green sea dimples in the glowing sun, 
And at my feet soft casts its snowy foam, 

As dreamily I gaze far oceanward, 

Nor check my fancies which so idly roam. 

Aye ! fancies which must ever riot run, 

And paint fair pictures to my famished eyes, 

Pictures which rival aught that art can paint, 
And smile again — beneath these Southern skies. 

To thee, dear heart, who art so far away, 

Ten thousand tender fancies chant sweet song, 

And all in nature that is beautiful, 

My heart and soul cry out, to thee belong. 

The softest breeze of this dear (< Land of Flowers, }> 
Not softer is — than thy sweet Southern voice; 

The splendor of thy perfect, matchless soul, 
Nature reflects, and smiles, and does rejoice. 
228 



Revery. 

Sing on, green sea, and dimple in the sun; 

Trill loud, ye mock-birds, in this land of flowers ; 
Blow soft, ye fragrant-laden breezes, blow, 

While I dream on — throughout these golden 
hours. 



229 



«I AM THE WAY» 

(St. JOHN 14th— 6.) 



Be still, oh earth! and lowly, hark! 

Why will ye walk in grief and pain, 
And dull your ears to melody 

Of angel voices' sweet refrain ? 

For forty years in wilderness 

Toiled Israel — while fair and bright, 
Within her very grasp, there lay 

The promised land ■ — a heavenly sight. 

So now, before each living soul, 

There stretches pure a peaceful life, 

Where troubled waters never roll, 
Nor any earthly care or strife. 

When trouble casts its darkened pall 
Athwart thy path excluding day, 

Oh burdened soul — but turn to Him 
Who cries to thee, (< I am the Way. w 
230 



"I am the Way* 

Oh blessed Way from every care, 

Thou makest night shine forth as day, 

When we but realize, Oh Christ! 

That Thou forever art «the Way.» 



231 



FLORIDA, QUEEN OF THE SOUTH 



Oh Florida, thou beauteous queen, 

Of all the South most witching fair; 

Upon thy bosom blue lakes gleam, 

Thy brow is crowned with blossoms rare. 

Thou art the land of luscious fruit, 

Of tropic trees, and birds, and flowers; 

God left the trace of his own hand 
On Florida's enchanted bowers. 

Not all the tribute poets bring, 

Oh land of flowers, to thy fair shrine, 

Can estimate thy loveliness, 

Or paint one-half those charms of thine. 

God must have made thee, oh thou queen, 

His Eden for the sinless pair, 
For not a spot on all the globe, 

Did he create one-half so fair. 



232 



LINES RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED 
To General j. j. dickison. 



A book and bunch of violets, 
Placed in my fevered hand, 

As languishing on bed of pain 
I lay in distant land — 

In eloquence shall always speak, 
Of tender heart and brave, 

Who led his men so valiantly, 
Dear Dixie land to save. 

But all the laurels he has won, 
(To those who know him best) 

Tell not one-half the story of 
His nature's nobleness. 

For this heart that was bravest in 
The battle's fiercest strife, 

Sweet radiates the teachings of 
The Master's blessed life. 
233 



Dedicatory Lines. 

Soon — from o'er all the Land of Flowers, 
The boys who wore the gray, 

Shall gather at fair Jacksonville, 
For the <( unveiling w day. 

To see their hero's statue, which 

Shall ever proudly stand, 
To grace the fairest city in 

Fair Florida's bright land. 

The frosts of age are on his brow 
But Spring blooms in his heart, 

Her blossoms and her sunshine, from 
His soul shall ne'er depart. 

Forever shall his valor live, 

In every Southern breast; 
His acts of unseen kindness, with 

The ones who know him best. 



Ocala, Fla., Feb. 22d, iS 



234 



THE RED, RED ROSE 



Place not within my cold dead hands 

A flower of snowy white, 
But give to me the red, red rose, 

All warm with crimson light. 

Deck not my bier with any flower 

But with the red, red rose, 
And may it breathe to those I love 

My sweetness of repose. 

Drape not my door in sable, friends, 

Nor wear the garb of woe ; 
Why should we mourn, when God Himself 

Has bade a spirit go ? 

Then place not in my lifeless hand 

A flower of snowy white, 
But bring to me the red, red rose, 

All warm with crimson light. 



235 



HOW DO I LOVE YOU? 



You ask me how I love you, sweetheart mine! 
I love you as the birds love fruits' ripe wine. 
I love you as the bee loves orange bloom, 
Rich laden with the Southland's sweet perfume. 

I love you as the parched flowers love the rain, 
Which kiss them back to beauteous life again. 
I love you as the morning loves the light, 
Which dissipates the shadows of the night. 

I love you — as a mother babe on breast, 
When soft she wooes the fragile thing to rest. 
Yet — love you fierce as tiger loves his mate 
In jungle, where he roams untamed in state. 

I love you as God's Word bids woman love, 
With just the worship man gives God above. 
And all my will is lost, Oh sweetheart mine, 
Forever, in the lightest wish of thine. 



236 



TRUST 



Between us yawned a gulf we could not bridge, 
We trembled on its brink — and gazed to shore, 

For lo! a bright-winged angel hovered there, 
And in his mystic touch our spirits bore, 

Beyond the surging tide to sylvan nook, 
Where birds Ave Maria always chant, 

And lilies swing their censered incense sweet 

Athwart dream-faces — seen through cloudland 
slant. 

And as God's priests (through Him) speak peace to 
soul, 
So to us, those pure surpliced, soulless flowers 
Spake peace ; while chanted all the feathered 
choir 
God's praise, through nature's green cathedral 
bowers. 

237 



Trust. 

And so we clung, and lingered near the gulf 
The brackish waters sweeping at our feet, 

While far beyond the angel bore our souls 
To spots where only kindred spirits vr 3et. 

In life — 'tis ever thus to those who trust — 
They are upheld by mystic spirit hands; 

And Christ, in all his blessed tenderness, 
Close to each waiting soul forever stands. 



238 



JUN 15 1898 



